


How To Draw Fallen Angels

by BetteNoire (WeAreWolves)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I have deadlines, It’s hard out there for an MFA, M/M, Museums, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Slow Burn, why am I doing this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-03-04 01:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13353288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreWolves/pseuds/BetteNoire
Summary: Steve Rogers, smol angry artist, helps out a guy having a panic attack in a museum café. No good deed, as they say, goes unpunished.





	1. Chapter 1

Steve gets the email at 10:17 on Monday morning and he squeaks so loud that a customer browsing the rack of postcards drops a handful of Dutch Old Masters on the ground. (It’s okay. Steve never liked Lucas Cranach much anyway.)

Steve apologizes to the customer from his perch behind the cash register at the museum shop, and immediately texts Natasha and Sam.

STEVE: I HAVE NEWS

STEVE: 11AM BREAK I WILL BUY YOU COFFEE

NATASHA: At the museum café where we all get it for free anyway? :p

STEVE: YES

SAM: [thumbs-up emoji] I’m glad someone’s happy

NATASHA: C’mon Sam you know you love it when Stark buys a big pile of random old shit for you to wade through

SAM: Sanskrit. Why is it always Sanskrit.

SAM: CU soon. I need more sugar for this day.

Steve then texts Peter, the info desk kid who covers for him during store breaks. Most days he’d just close the shop for 20 minutes — the museum is usually dead quiet, even on a holiday Monday like this one — but a combination of the European school vacation period and a big write-up in the New York Times on the new _Medieval Monsters_ exhibit, means that the old place is uncomfortably packed. There are four whole people already in the gift shop. It’s bizarre.

Steve sells a couple posters, a tote bag, and a big Taschen book on medieval armor while he watches the seconds tick by until 11. Finally Peter ambles in, all teenage gawkiness, and Steve can jet off through the galleries towards the atrium café where his friends await.

He blows a kiss to the Water Lilies in Gallery 113 as he dashes by, and smiles at the tiny Botticelli annunciation in 120. Then, through the Gothic gateway and into his second favourite place in the whole museum: the central atrium garden, always heated to a perfect 70 degrees below its glass roof. The Stark Museum is an oddball mix of Howard and Maria Stark’s personal collection, and their son Tony’s obsession with early medieval art, all housed in an Upper East Side mansion designed to look like an Italian palazzo. It’s a ridiculous mishmash of styles, both the art and the architecture. Other than the Monet, the newest piece of art dates from 1880… unless you count the dirty cookie plate that Maria Stark left on top of a Ming Dynasty vase in Gallery 210 after a party in 1965 that can’t be moved according to a codicil in the Starks’ will. _Who says our museum doesn’t have any conceptual art,_ Steve thinks to himself for the thousandth time.

In any case, the Stark Museum is Not Cool. Its smattering of Impressionists and huge collections of gilded saints dying in all their ecstatic medieval glory, its rooms of some of the first books ever created in Europe, are absolutely not on the radar of the Cool New York Museum-Goer. The two galleries of arms and armour are popular with the kids, but with the infinitely larger and more varied collection of the Met just eight blocks south, they don’t even get many would-be little knights coming to the Stark.

Still, it has a ton of money behind it. The mansion used to be the Starks’ home, but after an attempted burglary that turned deadly in the 1980s, Tony Stark walked out of his family home never to return. He endowed it with a couple billion dollars and benignly ignored it until about 2000, when he saw how cheaply medieval religious art – seemingly permanently out of favour in this modern age — was going for. Then Tony started buying. And buying.

Crates from all over the world seem to arrive weekly at the curatorial department, usually huge lots from estate sales in Europe and Russia where Tony hopes that among the unsorted dross will be a mis-attributed Giotto or van Eyck, or a fragment of an early medieval book. The latest delivery was from a Lebanese collection of early Christian manuscripts, and Steve had heard from Sam — assistant curator for manuscripts, and one of Steve’s best friends — that Tony had paid a ridiculous amount of money for a bunch of old stuff that might be fakes, just because his business colleague Justin Hammer had his eye on a particular part of the collection. Hammer had indeed outbid Stark on the smaller, supposedly rarer part of the collection, but Tony had ended up with the rest.

And now, as Steve could tell from the dark circles under his friend’s eyes as Sam slumped at the café table, Sam was tasked with cataloguing, restoring, and translating “the rest”. Natasha, her bright red hair slightly mussed from her cap, is already there too. She waves brightly at Steve, and he holds up a finger.

“Lemme grab your coffees,” he says, just as an entire tour group descends on the café line ahead of him. He groans.

“News first, coffee second,” Natasha calls.

“Uugh,” Sam groans. “Coffee first.”

Natasha frowns and gestures emphatically at the long line ahead of Steve, and Sam gently bashes his forehead on the table. Steve slides down into the chair opposite him and pats Sam on the shoulder.

Sam looks up from the table and smirks at Steve. “You got the gig.”

Steve beams. “Yeah, I did.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “This is the anatomy drawing guides, right? Like, basically what you teach at your life drawing class?”

“Pretty much,” Steve says, blushing.

“I’m shocked that someone hired you for something you’re severely overqualified for,” Natasha groans. “Just like you getting hired to work retail at an art museum, with an MFA.”

“That’s the thing about an MFA,” Steve sighs. “There’s no such thing as a well-paid job you’re qualified for with an MFA. Still, if the first guide goes well, they say it would be really regular work. Like, four guides a year.”

“That’s amazing, man,” Sam says.

“Yeah, with those plus teaching at the Art Students’ League and working here, I might someday pay off that MFA.” Steve smiles ruefully.

“Brave heart, Steve,” Natasha says, patting his arm. “So tell us all about this guide.”

Steve turns beet red. “Well, it’s…” Then he tucks his chin and mumbles something.

“What?” Sam says.

“ _It’scalledHowToDrawFallenAngels_ ,” Steve rushes out, a little louder.

Natasha throws her head back and snorts so loudly that the next table looks over. “Oh my god. Seriously?”

“Yes,” Steve says, shrinking his small frame even further down into his seat. His cheeks are so hot he feels like they’re about to catch fire.

“How To Draw Fallen Angels,” Sam says, rolling the words around in his mouth experimentally. “Who, uh, who is the target market of this book?”

Natasha thumps her fist on the table. “15-year-old white girls,” she says. “Seriously, I would have died for a book full of hot guys with wings when I was a little emo teen. Steve, they have to be as naked and built as possible. And beat up.”

Steve takes in the slightly manic glint in Natasha’s eye. “That’s… oddly specific, Tash.”

“Bruised, cut-up dreamboats with wings, looking submissive and badly in need of cuddles. I _know_ this audience. I know what they want.”

Sam groans. “Natasha, your id is showing. Put it away.”

Natasha ignores him, and narrows her eyes at Steve. “Trust me, Steve. At least one of them with bat wings and a tail, and pale eyes, looking like the baddest of bad boys. Long hair. Skinny but ripped.”

“How is that in need of cuddles?” Sam asks.

“Tsk,” Natasha huffs. “The devil boy’s clearly on his knees, in chains. I can’t believe I have to explain these things.”

“Natasha,” Steve interrupts. “They’re only paying me $5,000. That’s not enough for model fees for that sort of model.”

“You don’t have any hot models at the Art Students League?” Natasha says, her voice climbing in surprise.

“I mean, our models are amazing, but none of them are the sort of body type you’re describing,” Steve says.

Natasha leans on Steve. “I’m sure between softcore gay porn sites and your imagination, everything will come out fine,” she purrs.

“This is not softcore gay porn,” Steve groans. “It’s a stealth anatomy book.”

“It _could_ be softcore gay porn, if you’re living your best life,” Natasha smiles.

“You know,” Sam says, standing up, “you two are actually making cataloguing Sanskrit manuscripts seem like the better option here. Steve, I’m happy for you, my man, but imma get my coffee and go back to work.”

Steve stands up too, dislodging Natasha. “No! I said I’d get it. I’ll get it.” He shoves Sam back towards his seat and bustles to the café’s counter.

The line is still super long. The café has cutesy artistic names for all its drinks, and Steve swears that half the wait time is people figuring out what the blazes a _Lorenzo Latte_ or an _Alphonse Mocha_ is. Steve doesn’t know Janet, the girl behind the register, very well, but usually it’s fine for museum staff to slip behind the counter and grab filter coffees and pastries to go. He’s not a barbarian, though, so he’s going to ask her first. As soon as her current customer finishes ordering.

Which might be sometime next year.

The guy is taking _forever_. He’s wearing a grey watch cap and a navy-blue peacoat and he’s staring up at all the drink names in utter confusion. He’s not a small guy, Steve would guess six feet at the least, but there’s something defeated and anxious in his posture that makes him look small. His hands are shoved in his pockets. A group of four white New Yorkers behind him are becoming restless in that very specific New York way, pointed and obvious. The woman in the group sighs operatically and flips her long, expensively-balayaged hair. “Come ooon,” she whines. Her male partner, his baseball cap backwards, reaches over and shoves the guy in the shoulder. “Hey, make up your mind or step aside.”

The guy seems to wilt even further, and he glances from the impatient New York bro to Janet the barista, and up to the drink names again.

“What are you, retarded? Just pick a fuckin’ coffee, dickwad,” says one of the other men in the group.

And Steve loses it.

Before he realises, he’s inserted himself between the four harassers and the anxious guy. His fists are balled at his sides as he glares at the somewhat stunned New Yorkers. “This is a _museum_ , asshole,” Steve says. “Half the people who come here are from other countries and aren’t necessarily fluent in English. So if you could just treat people with the sort of decency you’d expect to be treated with if you went to, say, Japan, or Brazil, that would be one tiny step to making this world a little bit less shitty. Okay?”

“Jeez, _whatever_ , dude,” the guy in the backwards cap snarls, looking at Steve like Steve is the unreasonable one.

“Janet, can you get these people their order please?” Steve says. His tone could still cut glass. “I was gonna sneak back and get staff coffee so I’ll just get this guy’s order too.”

Janet smiles at him. She looks pretty tired herself, like she’s been having a bad time of it lately. “Thanks, Steve.”

“Okay,” Steve says, turning to the guy in the peacoat. “Hey, what kind of coffee do you like? Or tea? I know the names are confusing, but if you tell me I can help which one. I've had all of—“

Steve nearly chokes on his words as he actually gets a look at the guy. The man is anxiously twisting the hem of the plain v-neck t-shirt he’s wearing under the peacoat. The effect is to drag the thin grey fabric taut across the most defined, stacked chest Steve has ever seen. Which, given how small Steve is, means that chest is right at Steve’s eye level.

Steve manages a dry swallow and looks up to the guy’s face and… that’s no better. In his home country, the guy has to be a model or a movie star or something because nobody in real life looks that good. The biggest, palest blue eyes ringed by dark lashes. Amazing cheekbones. And the sort of pouty lips that would make a Renaissance painter faint with joy.

The guy also looks about two seconds away from a panic attack. He starts chewing on his bottom lip. And he’s shivering, Steve notices, despite the perfect 70-degree temperature of the atrium garden.

Steve softens his voice and slowly reaches for the guy’s elbow. “Hey,” he says, “Let’s go sit down, okay? Right over here.” The guy lets Steve guide him, docile as a lamb despite his size. Steve keeps up a meaningless patter as he walks. “This is my favorite table when I’m here by myself. You have the pillar at your back and that palm tree next to you and you can see the whole café but nobody can really see you. Why don’t you sit down? I work here, and I’m just going to get you something to eat, okay? And a drink? It’s free, staff get free food, so don’t worry about it. Just… sit here and, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay.”

The guy sits down. He’s still shivering. Steve dashes back to the café counter and reappears a couple minutes later with a tray. He breathes a sigh of relief as he comes around the side of the palm tree and finds the guy still there.

“Here’s some water,” Steve says, putting the first glass down. “And some hot chocolate, in this mug. And I got you a carrot-ginger muffin because they’re my favourite and they’re really really good, honest.”

The guy hesitantly puts both hands around the mug of hot cocoa, shuddering as he touches it, like he never thought he would be warm again. He gives Steve a hesitant, small smile, and book commission be damned, Steve feels like that smile is the biggest victory he’s won all month.

Steve grins back at him. “If it’s bad but not run away home bad, I’d suggest going and sitting for a while in front of the Water Lilies in Gallery 113–“ he glances around and fishes an abandoned museum pamphlet off a nearby empty table, pulling a pen out of his pocket and circling the correct gallery— “I know it’s a cliché but losing myself in a big Monet is really grounding, on my bad days.”

The guy is watching him, over the mug of cocoa. Steve loses himself for a moment in the man’s eyes. They’re grey, ringed with a slightly darker grey, and it’s as if there are flecks of silver moving in the irises, shifting.

“Okay then, well, enjoy your visit to the Stark, and to New York too if you’re not from here, I promise we’re not all rude and, uh, I have to get back to my friends,” Steve stutters.

He gets up and grabs their filter coffees and a muffin for himself and a salted-caramel Rice Krispie treat for Sam. He glances back a couple times at the table tucked away behind the palm tree. The guy in the peacoat is slowly eating the muffin, breaking off small pieces with his fingers and putting them in his mouth, and the sense of wonder on his handsome face makes Steve feel all warm inside.

He’s still a little dazed from his encounter when he sets their coffees and treats back on the table.

“What was that?” Natasha says, smacking Sam’s hand away from the Rice Krispie treat so she can break a corner off it.

“Nothing,” Steve says. “Some guy just about had a panic attack over our cute coffee names and the people in line behind him were being dicks about it.”

Natasha glances over Steve’s shoulder. “He’s not wearing a museum sticker,” she says. “Do you think he’s homeless and slipped in here?”

“Well if he is, god, let him sit in the warmth for the day, the museum is technically free entry anyway,” Steve growls.

“Pfft, he’s not homeless,” Sam says. “No way, with a coat that nice.”

“Homeless people are allowed to have nice things, Sam, don’t presume to tell people how to be poor,” Steve says. Then he realises how tight he’s holding himself and forces his muscles to relax. “Sorry, guys, I just… that poor guy. He was really built and he looked so… lost. Like a kicked puppy.”

Natasha makes a my point exactly gesture. “Which brings us back to your book. I could go into the psychology of teenage girls coming to terms with their sexuality via displacement onto mythological creatures such as angels, which are both asexual and hyper-masculine at the same time—“

“—But please don’t,” says Sam, around a mouthful of Rice Krispie Treat.

“Oh, one of them has to be the child of an angel and a devil,” Natasha says. “My teenage LiveJournal account says so.”

Steve and Sam both groan at once.

“Look, Natasha,” Steve says. “I’m on a really tight deadline. I only got this because their usual artist became unreliable and blew his last three deadlines. This is going to be the best damn sneaky anatomy guide that I can finish in a month and not spend any money on, that’s it. Now. You both will model for me, right?”

“You got model money?” Sam smirks.

Steve looks aggrieved and indicates the coffee and snacks in front of them.

“You got model _muffins_ ,” Natasha smiles, around her double espresso.

“You want us to expose ourselves for exposure,” Sam snorts.

“No, I want to take half-dressed reference photos of you in return for my continued friendship and good will,” Steve says.

“Draw a pet portrait of my mom’s cats for Christmas and you got a deal,” Sam says. “Just don’t make me look like me, because if one of my little cousins finds a softcore pic of me with angel wings in a drawing book, there are going to be consequences for me at every family barbecue from here to the end of eternity.”

“You still need a pretty white boy, though,” Natasha says.

“It’s okay, I think I have some, uh, reference I can use,” Steve says, thinking of the photos he has in a folder marked INSURANCE SCANS on his laptop back in his apartment.

“Not Tayte Hansen, though,” Natasha winks.

“Dammit,” Steve says. At the same time, his phone alarm beeps. Break time is over.

As Steve heads out of the atrium he glances back over his shoulder to the table behind the palm tree. The man is gone. Steve shakes his head, trying to rattle the memory loose. It had happened, right? He hadn’t just dreamed up the gorgeous, shy guy in the peacoat, had he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: currently finishing up another WIP, Demonique. I’ll be on this again as soon as Demonique is done! Sorry for the delay!
> 
> Look, I have no excuses for this. Or update schedule, for that matter. Whenever I open Word in my iPad, it opens this story rather than the one I’m working on and I guess the fates are trying to tell me something?
> 
> This is probably going to be unremitting fluff, but given my track record for turning everything into a thriller... welp.
> 
> The Stark is based on a combination of the Frick and the Cloisters in NYC, the Isabella Stuart Gardiner in Boston, and the Barnes outside Philly. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> W/ref Monet’s Water Lilies, did you know Impressionism came about significantly through innovations related to the industrial revolution in the actual oil paints themselves? First came the creation of paint tubes, to keep liquid paint fresh, in 1840. That meant you could go outside and paint in plein air. Previously, oil paints were in powder form that you had to mix with oil yourself, or came in glass syringes. 
> 
> Second and more importantly was the discovery of cadmium in 1807 and then its potential as a pigment in the late 1800s. This resulted in much richer red and yellow pigment that was a lot less fugitive (eg it didn’t fade as fast) than previously available. (Prussian Blue, the first stable and lightfast blue pigment, didn’t come about until the early 1800s either). There are other issues (the start of true public viewing of artworks in France; the rise of photography as a method of record) but a lot of it is based on the fact you could now just take your paints outside in an easily portable way, and that those paints had a lot more kick in them than they used to.
> 
> Oh also: THE BOOK REALLY EXISTS. 
> 
>  


	2. Chapter 2

It’s Wednesday, the day his pay comes in from his art teaching job, so Steve indulges in his midweek ritual of treating himself to one of the ridiculously unhealthy chocolate-frosted donuts from the coffee cart next to the subway station. As he turns to head up the block to the museum, his eye catches on a mens’-magazine cover from the newsstand next door. Not the actor on it, some ginger guy with a wide mouth and freckles, but what he’s wearing: navy peacoat. Slim-cut, wide neck t-shirt in a distractingly translucent grey cotton. Grey watch cap. Dark skinny jeans.

It’s the exact same outfit as the hot guy from the café yesterday.

Steve is jostled out of his reverie by the press of people exiting the subway station, a few of them swearing at him under their breath for being a tourist who stands in the middle of the sidewalk. Which, technically, he is standing in the middle of the sidewalk like some gormless out of towner. Steve’s cheeks flush red as he turns north, up Fifth to the museum. It couldn’t be the same outfit. Now Steve’s brain is just being crazy.

Clint, the night watchman, buzzes Steve in the back entrance. Steve decides since he’s a little early, before he opens the gift shop he’ll do a lap around the ground-floor galleries and say hi to all his friends on the walls, and grab some filter coffee at the café to go with the lard-and-sugar bomb he’s about to ingest.

He’s just sliding into Gallery 124 — Northern European Renaissance — when he nearly swallows his own tongue.

It’s the hot guy.

From the café.

He’s somehow in the museum before it opens, and not tripping 8,000 security measures (give or take; Natasha is frighteningly thorough). And he’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. But now the peacoat is folded on the bench next to him, which gives Steve full view of two of the thickest, hottest arms he’s ever seen in real life. The man’s skin is olive, warm gold in the lights like the gold leaf of the paintings around him. And he’s just sitting there, calmly looking at a Roger van der Weyden annunciation with its big, moon-faced Mary. How did he get in? And, given that he’s still in yesterday’s clothes, did he spend the night in the museum?

Steve tiptoes back out of the gallery and then runs for Clint’s office. He’s so out of breath when he gets there he has to sit down in Natasha’s chair and suck on his rescue inhaler before he can make words. But as soon as he can, he croaks out, “Gallery 124, camera.”

Clint pulls up the camera feeds from Gallery 124 and even winds them back a bit. Steve sees himself go into the gallery and back out of it… but there’s nobody else there. Where the hot guy had been sitting, there’s just… _nothing_. The empty bench. That’s all.

Steve sighs. “Sorry to bug you, Clint. I swore I saw someone in that gallery.”

“It’s okay, dude,” Clint says, offering Steve a pot of the sludgy napalm that passes for coffee in that office. “Rather have you follow your instinct that something was weird, than ignore it and we lose a painting.”

Steve refuses Clint’s death coffee, and grimaces as Clint lifts the whole pot to his mouth.

“I heard something happened at the Hammer Collection,” Clint says. “They’re keeping it on the down-low but somehow Natasha found out. Guess she still has friends on the force.” Clint starts to tell him a shaggy-dog story about stuff the Hammer Warehouse hadn’t even catalogued yet that somehow got destroyed, but Steve is barely listening.

The donut sits like lead in his stomach, and after staring at the Gallery 124 feed past Clint, a feed that remains resolutely unpopulated by humans of any hotness level, Steve makes his excuses and heads downstairs to open up the gift shop.

Wednesdays are _always_ slow. Steve almost wishes for a high-school tour group, because at this moment he’d take busy with a side order of being looked down on by 17-year-olds as preferable to this crippling boredom. He has so far rearranged the Taschen table three times, and re-ordered the postcard racks by hue, and it’s barely 10:20. Another 40 minutes until break.

STEVE: Sam I’m losing my mind

SAM: Me too

SAM: Opened a new crate and Aramaic and Linear B have come to the party

SAM: Oh and hieroglyphics

STEVE: Sam u love hieroglyphics don’t lie

SAM: Not when they look like they’re written by a drunk person

SAM: A dozen papyrus scrolls of WTF, thanks Mr Stark

SAM: And one scroll case just had a feather in it

STEVE: Is it a quill?

SAM: Quills weren’t a thing then

SAM: No this is from some albatross or something

SAM: Do albatrosses come in blue?

STEVE: Do I look like Richard Attenborough?

SAM: Albatrossi?

SAM: So wait why are you losing your mind?

STEVE: Never mi—

“Um… hello?” The voice is deep and gravelly, as if it hasn’t been used in a while, and it’s from right behind Steve.

Steve absolutely does not squawk like a little girl, jump into the air, or fumble his phone. No, none of these things happen. Steve also does not watch, in what feels like sports-replay slo mo, his just-upgraded iPhone X go tipping down out of his fingers towards the gift shop’s unforgiving marble floor. That whimper of dismay has nothing to do with Steve, either.

But just before Apple product meets parquet, a large hand flashes out and catches it.

Steve turns around and looks down, and his gaze meets impossibly blue eyes, and oh wow, if Hot Café Guy looked good standing up, it’s nothing to how he looks crouched down. His perfect face is tilted up towards Steve, his chin maybe six inches from Steve’s groin.

Steve’s mind takes a hard left turn into the gutter at 100mph. He watches as Hot Guy stands up with a sinuous grace that belies his size (not helping; not helping _at all_ ) and tries to pretend he hasn’t just been fantasizing about the man’s lips around his cock.

The man offers Steve his phone back.

Steve manages to stammer out, “Wow, you scared me, I didn’t hear you approach.”

The man doesn’t say anything for a moment. He places Steve’s phone on the checkout table, and then fidgets. One of his hands starts to twist the hem of his t-shirt again. Then without making eye contact, he mumbles, “I, I'm new here. This place is very confusing. I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable.”

There’s the clatter of running feet, and Sam appears, panting as he slows his sprint across the atrium towards the gift shop. “You okay, man?” Sam says, his eyes flicking between Steve and the hot stranger.

“Yeah,” Steve says, a little too brightly. “I, uh, I was just being a klutz and dropped my phone and he saved it.”

As Steve says it, he realises the hot guy is shrinking back, turning to go. “Wait,” he says, reaching out and grabbing at the guy’s arm.

The man freezes, every muscle in his body tensing. There’s something hard and terrifying about him in that moment; his eyes  almost seem to blaze. 

“Uh…” Sam says, reaching for his tablet, where there’s a panic-button app, standard issue for all Stark employees.

“Sorry,” Steve says, withdrawing his hand only a little regretfully from all that warm muscle. “I shouldn’t have touched you without asking. I’m just worried. You look exhausted. Do you have somewhere to sleep? Enough money to get by?”

(Sam is now rolling his eyes in exasperation.)

The man’s brows furrow adorably. “How does one get money?”

Steve laughs. “Don’t ask me, I’m an MFA.”

“Hey, I got a PhD in ancient languages and I can only afford to live at the ugly end of the E train,” Sam says. “And I still owe money to three different colleges.”

The man smiles a little, awkwardly. “I don’t know what any of that means. I’m sorry.”

Steve pouts in Sam’s general direction. “It’s really sunny today,” he says.

Sam shakes his head, and gives a Significant Look at the hot guy’s sheer size, then at Steve. Very quietly, through closed lips, he whispers, “Lennie, tell me again about the rabbits.”

Steve presses his lips together and glares at Sam.

Sam sighs. “Okay, fine,” he says, flicking his ID card out from where it’s tucked under his sweater on a lanyard. “But only because Natasha’s off today.”

“Hi, that’s Sam,” Steve says. “I’m Steve. Wanna get some food with us and then go sit in the sun?”

The man’s eyes widen slightly, then he relaxes, and nods. As if on cue, his stomach grumbles, loudly.

Steve grins. He texts Peter to come watch the shop for him, and starts heading towards the atrium café.. “What’s your name?”

The man freezes again, and Sam narrowly avoids crashing into him. The expression on the man’s face is one of confusion and terror, and Steve thanks the heavens that the museum is empty so there are no curious onlookers to the poor guy’s plight.

Steve forces the too-bright expression on his face again, the one he uses when he has to explain to people that paintings of naked people were not, in fact, porn. He is increasingly uneasy with just how much this guy, walking wet dream or not, just _doesn’t know_. The guy has either had the sort of head wound that only happens on soap operas, or he is so non-neurotypical that functioning in normal society is a significant struggle for him. “We need something to call you, so maybe if you can’t remember your name, you can pick one?” Steve tries.

“Lennie,” chirps Sam.

“Not Lennie.” Steve elbows Sam, hard, while smiling encouragingly at Hot Café Guy.

The man’s bright blue eyes flick around the room. They’re in Gallery 123, Early Renaissance. His gaze returns to Steve, and his tongue wets those plush, bowed lips. “J-James,” he says, his voice a rusty whisper.

Steve doesn’t have to look to know that behind him to his left is a huge, gilded portrait of the martyrdom of St James, by Francisco de Zurbaran. So the guy gets overwhelmed easily when he is confronted with a lot of new information, but he could guess the martyr at 50 paces. Maybe he‘s on the autistic spectrum?

“Okay, James. Let’s get some food, huh?” Steve says.

Hot Guy — no, _James_ ’ stomach rumbles again, and he blushes, and Steve almost trips over his own feet.

They grab a huge box of sandwiches, plus bags of chips and sodas and cookies from Sharon, who’s working the café that day. Then Sam takes them up the staff stairs to the roof garden, a gorgeous little oasis that’s technically off-limits to employees. But, seeing as how it’s only used twice a year for Stark Industries parties, the museum’s head curator had quietly decided that employees of over three years standing would be allowed access to it as a perk. Sam had just crossed his three-year mark in March; the first time he’d excitedly dragged Steve up to the garden there had still been snow on the ground.

Now, it’s October, and the city is in the golden haze of Indian summer. By 11am, the light streams over the nearby rooftops and bathes the garden’s warm stone and tidy flowerbeds. Steve thinks he’ll never get over how improbable this place is: palm trees and lush flowerbeds, seven stories up in the sky. He plops down on one of the four teak chaise-longues arranged to face Central Park, and indicates that James should sit too.

He does, and immediately tilts his head back, soaking up the sun like a cat.

Sam sits on the other side of Steve and props up his tablet on his legs. “Hope you guys don’t mind if I keep working,” he says, fishing an egg salad sandwich out of the box. “These scrolls are pissing me off.”

Steve makes an inquiring noise, and Sam angles the tablet towards him. The whole screen is an image of part of a papyrus scroll, with strangely-angled, messy symbols across it. Then Steve becomes aware of a warm presence, at his back. Not touching him, but close.

It’s James, leaning over to look at the image, too.

And his lips are moving.

Steve glances at Sam and then back at James. James’ eyes are travelling over the image on the screen, and he’s…

“Wait. Say that a little louder,” Sam says, his eyes suddenly sharp.

James reaches a hand out and points at part of the screen. He speaks again, in a pretty, musical language that Steve has never heard before.

“I’ll be damned,” Sam says. “Keep reading.”

James blushes again and shakes his head, his dark, wavy hair falling across his face. “I don’t want to. It’s… very rude, what’s written there.”

“Ugh,” Sam says, looking heavenwards. “Why am I not surprised that Tony Stark bought Ancient Egyptian erotica.” Then he looks at James again. “Where did you study hieroglyphics? Because the ancient history scholars’ world is pretty small and I probably know at least one of your professors. Dr Bagley? Or Dr Al-Sabah over in London?”

James just shrugs. “Didn’t learn. Just know,” he says.

Sam makes a face like he’s sucked on a lemon. “Ohhhkay,” he says, then flips to a different image on the screen, of the surface of a clay tablet. Steve has hung out with Sam long enough that he can recognise what Linear B looks like, even if he can’t read any of it. Sam extends the tablet to James.

James’ lips move as he scans the symbols on the image. Then he looks up, raising his eyebrows. “It is an order to send a gift of gold jewelry and perfumes from Knossos to Thebes.”

Sam’s eyes narrow further. “This is not happening,” he says. “I did not struggle through a PhD and a shit-ton of institutional racism just so you can prank me with some GQ hobo boyfriend crap.”

“I’m not pranking you,” Steve says.

Sam pulls up another image, a scroll filled with the tiny, boxy, jagged lines of Aramaic. He shows it to James.

James’ eyes widen and his skin pales with terror. He shakes his head. “That. No. I will not read it. You have to destroy it.”

“Oh, so you _can’t_ read it,” Sam says, a hint of triumph in his voice.

Steve looks at James, who is shaking again, like he was when Steve first saw him in the café. “Sam, I think he can, he just doesn’t want to. What is it, anyway?”

Sam glances at the image. “I haven’t started this one yet, but all the Aramaic stuff I’ve looked at so far from that auction is crazy gnostic bullshit.” He squints, and traces a finger along the first few lines of the text. “Angels and shit. Holy soldiers. Smiting God’s enemies on earth.” Sam thinks for a moment. “Yeah, smiting is definitely the recurring theme.”

Then Sam looks over at James, who is doing that thing where he tries to make himself smaller, drawing his broad shoulders in. All it does is tighten his t-shirt further across his back. Steve wouldn’t normally object to the view, but seeing someone so big and powerful look so cowed makes his heart hurt.

“So, James, how long have you been in New York? I’’m guessing you’re not a native. You even American?”

“Uh,” James says, picking at the hem of his t-shirt. It’s fraying, ample evidence of his nervous habit. “I just got here.”

“Where from,” says Sam.

“I… don’t really know?” James says. “It was dark.”

Sam looks distinctly unhappy with James’ non-answers and is about to launch into what Steve knows is an interrogation. He’s been on the receiving end of it at various times in their friendship and it is no fun. So he butts in, fast. “James, do you have any family you could contact? Friends? Anyone who might be looking for you?”

James snorts, a little smile crossing his face. “No,” he says, with the finality of an orphan. Steve knows it well, and it’s like another needle in his heart. Ugh, is it wrong to want to wrap up a six-three brick shithouse in a fluffy blanket and cuddle him until he smiles again?

“So you decided to come hang out at one of New York’s least popular museums?” Sam says.

“All the old things make me feel better,” James says. “I was… drawn to here. I can’t really explain.”

“What a surprise,” Sam says drily.

“Let him eat, Sam. You can interrogate him more after a sandwich,” Steve says. Then, looking at the size of James, he adds, “or three.”

James smiles again and reaches towards the box of sandwiches. Then he makes a face, and pulls his hand back.

“What is it?” Steve says.

“I don’t… meat.” James responds, blushing.

“Oh!” Steve says. “Shit, yeah.” He pulls the box over to him and rummages around in it. “Are eggs okay?”

James thinks for a moment, then nods.

Steve pulls out the other egg-salad sandwich and two hummus, carrot and sprout sandwiches and passes them over.

Watching James eat is adorable. He sniffs the first sandwich like he’s never encountered one before, then takes a small nibble, then his eyes widen slightly and he makes a happy little noise. Then the sandwich is gone in about three bites. And the next one. And the third.

Steve grins and passes him a bottle of water.

After James drinks, he points to Sam’s tablet. “I can read those things for money?” He asks.

“Yes!” Steve says. “That’s a great idea,” at the same time Sam frowns and says, “No.”

Steve widens his eyes at Sam. “You just said last week they’d given you budget for an intern!”

“My dude,” Sam says, “Do you even have ID? A permanent address? A bank account?”

James looks at him blankly, then shakes his head.

“And this is why homeless people get stuck on the streets,” Steve snaps, pulling out his phone. He tears off one of the flaps of the sandwich box and starts writing down the addresses of homeless shelters and food banks. And where James can go to get a New York ID.

“Hey,” Sam says. “They still paying models in cash at your art school?”

This time it’s Steve’s turn to shake his head. “He needs ID for that too. And a bank account.” Steve passes the torn piece of cardboard to James, explaining each of the places and what they did: food, shelter, ID.

“Do I have to leave here?” James says.

“No!” Steve assures him. “You can hang out in the museum as long as it’s open. But this will help you figure out where to go once we close for the night. And besides, we both have to get back to work.”

James nods, and tucks the list into his jeans pocket. “Thank you,” he says, his voice soft and shy, “for… being kind. And for the food. I won’t bother you any more.”

Then he gets up and silently heads back into the museum.

Sam and Steve watch him go, then Sam takes a swig of his Cherry Coke Zero and says, “why do I feel like I just kicked a puppy?”

“None of him makes sense,” Steve says, his brows furrowing.

“No shit,” Sam says. “I am comfortable enough in my heterosexuality to say that that man is incredibly fine, and also reads and speaks at least three ancient languages with a fluency possessed by maybe eight people in the entire world? And yet is sketchy on details like his name or where he’s from. I thought for a minute there you were going to ask him to model for your book and I’m glad I didn’t have to whack you upside the head in front of him.”

“Yeah…. I thought about it,” Steve admits. “But he’s a stranger, who’s huge, is probably non-neurotypical, and probably never modeled before that he can remember, and I just… there’s a whole lot wrong with that, which could hurt him or me or both. Remember the way he reacted when I grabbed his arm?”

Sam blinks at him, then clutches his hands over his chest dramatically. “My little Stevie! Gaining a sense of self-preservation at last!”

Steve flips him off.

“Besides,” Steve sighs, “I already asked Brock.”

“The model you sorta had a crush on until he opened his mouth?” Sam says.

“Yeah,” Steve groans, resigned. “Gonna sketch up a dudebro angel, with a SnapBack cap and a polo shirt with a popped collar.”

Sam is silent for a moment, then punches Steve in the shoulder.

Steve cracks up. “Okay, I’m not, but that’s basically what he’s like. But he lifts a lot, so I can do the torso anatomy studies from him and some of the arm stuff too.”

He emphatically shoves to the side the tiny voice in his mind telling him how much nicer James’ torso and arms are.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is going to update pretty slowly, maybe once every couple weeks. That’s mostly because I’m using it as a reward: write a chapter or an issue of Non Fic Thing, then get to cut loose with a chapter of this. As always, your comments keep the flame alight in my heart, even if I am terrible at responding to them in a timely manner.
> 
> “Lennie” refers to a character in the book and film Of Mice And Men.
> 
> Also, here’s how to say “nice ass” in hieroglyphics. Don’t say I never did nothing for you!
> 
>  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: brief animal abuse (no permanent harm)

The slow Wednesday crawls forwards. The weather outside darkens to rain, which cuts the museum’s afternoon crowds to almost zero. And there’s no sign of James. Steve finally gives up trying to look professional and just pulls his sketchpad out and starts planning the main poses and character designs for his book commission. He can’t even say the name to himself. _How To Draw Fallen Angels_. He still can’t believe there’s a market for a book that specific, whatever Natasha might say. But the publisher is legit, and discreet inquiries to friends who had done projects on their other lines revealed that they were conscientious and, even more importantly, paid fast.

But he still giggles to himself as he sketches a fit, mostly naked Adonis on his knees, forearms chained, tattered wings hanging from his back and hair across his face.

Steve is just adding in texture and highlights to the hair when his phone buzzes.

SAM: I’m sorry about earlier

SAM: I didn’t mean to be petty

SAM: But can we agree it was super weird seeing your boy read hieroglyphics like he was scanning twitter?

STEVE: 1. He is not my boy

STEVE: 2. Yes, it was weird, but also cool

SAM: 1. You WIIIIIISH, I will lay cold hard cash on the line that you have at least one sketch of him already

Steve cackles to himself, thumbs poised over his phone to tell Sam just how wrong he is, when he glances down at the angel sketch he’d done as a trial for the book: the thick arms. The perfectly defined chest. The bowed lips glimpsed through a curtain of hair.

It’s absolutely James. Steve puts the phone down and slaps his notebook shut before anyone else can see. He’s not sure what’s worse: the fire of shame in his cheeks or the low burn of attraction in his groin. He’s brought back to earth by another text from Sam.

SAM: 2. Once I got over myself I went to talk to Dr Banner. He says if James is still around on Friday we can test him for the intern job.

STEVE: !!!!!!!!!!!

SAM: ;)

STEVE: thank you thank you thank you

SAM: eh I could use the help tbqh

STEVE: Still, thank you

SAM: Natasha’s going to interrogate him

STEVE: I know

Steve spends the rest of the day in a happy little fog, listening to his playlists via one earbud, and thumbnailing the How To Draw book. What few people drift into the museum gift shop seem to want to poke around on their own, more postponing going out into the rain than actually looking to buy anything, which is fine with Steve. He gets a surprising amount done. The only down note is that when he goes on break and looks for James to tell him the good news, the man is nowhere to be found.

Steve hopes it’s because James is getting started trying to find a place to stay, or working on his ID. But as he gathers his things at 6 to head down to midtown to teach his Open Sketch class, the nagging worry starts to grow. What if James never comes back? What if they scared him off? Steve knows that James’ life is none of his business, that he shouldn’t feel bad if James has moved on. But he wants so badly to tell James about the internship. He wants to see James smile again.

He shakes his head in dismay at himself as he dashes out of the museum and into the rain.

* * *

Steve doesn’t get back home to Brooklyn until almost 9, an hour after Open Sketch finishes, thank you L train. He strips out of his wet clothes and pulls on his favourite pair of grey sweatpants and an old Modest Mouse concert tee, then microwaves a burrito. Dinner is eaten on the sofa, as he looks up bird wing anatomy on his phone and balances his sketchbook on his knee.

He sleepily bookmarks a bunch of useful reference sites on his phone and then crawls to bed before he just crashes out on the sofa. He has to get up early tomorrow to tidy up before Brock comes over at 10 to model; his tiny studio apartment looks like a hurricane hit it.

Steve is exhausted, and goes to sleep almost as soon as his head touches the pillow. But instead of the deep, dreamless sleep he was expecting, his restless subconscious throws up strange images at him: James’ body, bound in rune-inscribed chains in a claustrophobic stone coffin. A sword severing wings; the resulting bloody stumps of bone and feather. Stormy, unfocused eyes, in a grey limbo world. His body seesaws between arousal and terror at the scenes playing out behind his eyelids. The dreams leave him tattered on the bright shore of morning, like a shipwreck victim who’s passed the night on storm-tossed seas.

He wakes up at 10, groggy and confused, and swears when he sees the time. Brock is due over any minute. Steve brews some coffee, frowns at his empty fridge, and figures he’ll order in once Brock shows. He throws on a t-shirt and sweatpants and tries to neaten up a bit before his model shows up.

By 11, there’s still no Brock. Steve has texted him twice to figure out a new ETA, and texted Sam four times to complain.

At 1, he gets a “sorry, on my way, brah” in response.

By 4pm, Steve texts him back, cancelling. He has to leave to teach class by 5:15 and he can’t get what he needs in terms of figure studies in a scant hour. Steve has gotten work done — he’s filled about ten sketchbook pages with studies of bat and bird wings — and he may have sketched a back view who looked like James again, big arms and bare shoulders, tattered stumps rising from his scapulae. He still hasn’t eaten, though, and he figures he’ll grab something at the Art League’s café before his class starts.

The L train has other ideas, though, and stops inexplicably within sight of Union Square for so long that Steve is about four seconds from going full Pelham 123 when the train finally grinds the last few yards into the station. He slides into class ten minutes late and cranky as hell. Luckily, the monitors and model have already gotten things moving. Thank heaven for long-pose classes, he thinks.

The class goes well — it’s one of his favourites, a small, advanced oil painting class, and they’re a week into a long pose and all he really has to do is wander around and quietly work with each student. But it’s also his longest class, and he doesn’t get off the L back in Bushwick until 11.

Well, almost 11. The “almost” is key because, as Steve checks his phone and realises he has three minutes to spare, the local pizza place closes at 11 and he is positively shaking with hunger. He runs up the subway steps as fast as he can, down the block, and decides to take the cut-through behind the supermarket to the main drag of shops and restaurants.

When Steve hears the crash of bottles being thrown, he realises he’s made a mistake.

When he sees what the bottles are being thrown at, though, he knows he can’t just turn around and walk away.

It’s a filthy dog, just skin and bones and maybe it was once white but now it’s dirty, and some drunk guys are winging bottles at it from the recycling bins. As each one crashes into it or on it, the dog lets out a pitiful little whine and cowers further towards a dumpster it can’t quite fit under.

The guys taunting the stray aren’t local, or at least Steve hasn’t seen them before. Four white guys in their early 20s, baseball caps and band t-shirts, and shorts that hang down to their knees.

“Hey, stop it!” Steve shouts. “I mean it, stop!”

The biggest guy turns around and looks Steve up and down, taking in his small size and slight frame. He snorts. “Fuck off, hipster,” he says.

“No!” Steve says. “I live here. This is my neighborhood. Find somewhere else to hassle defenseless strays. Or, better yet, find a better hobby.”

“Oooh,” says another of the men, broad and tan and tiny-eyed, with an underbite that makes him look a little Neanderthal. “The neighborhood watch has arrived.” He circles around behind Steve, and Steve starts to get really nervous.

“Look,” Steve says, putting his hands up. “Just… why don’t you chuck those bottles back in the recycling bin. Most of the bars here are only open for another hour, you don’t want to miss last call.”

“I got a better idea,” says the big guy. He’s got short red hair and the sort of pale, doughy skin that makes him look undercooked. A thick gold necklace glints around his neck; there’s another chain on his wrist. “Let’s put you in the bin.” The big guy moves forwards a lot faster than Steve expected for his size, and Steve feels a vise-like hand clamp around his upper arm.

Captain Underbite grabs his other arm and the other two hoot and stomp as they frogmarch Steve towards the same stinking dumpster the poor dog is still trying to hide under.

They both lift up and suddenly Steve’s feet are off the ground and it hurts, they’re wrenching his upper arms, and it’s embarrassing, he tries to kick at them but they’re too far away, and they’re swinging him and they’re going to throw him up into the dumpster and at least then it’ll be over, they’ll dump him and go, he’s had worse, if they don’t just dislocate his shoulders first he can—

—something smashes into the big doughy redhead from above, and the impact’s like a freight train, and then Steve’s on the ground, face in the stinking asphalt that he’s quite sure half of New York has peed on, and he briefly wonders, oh my god, did an air conditioner fall out of a nearby window, but then there’s this repetitive thudding noise and then what sounds like twigs snapping and he lifts up his head to see what’s happening—

—someone is beating the everloving shit out of the guys who had been holding Steve. One of the two onlookers raises a broken bottle and the fighter, he has to be some kind of pro fighter, just plants his hand on the pavement and kicks off in a flip, defying gravity with all the power and terrifying grace of a tiger, and shoves his boot into the guy’s face so hard his nose shatters. The guy lets go of the bottle he was wielding and neat as you please the fighter snags it in midair and flicks his wrist, flinging it at the fourth guy, who’s making a run for it, and the jagged glass buries itself in the small of his back and then he goes down and there is blood everywhere and then the fighter turns around and yanks Captain Underbite off the ground by his neck as if he weighed nothing and Steve gasps in horror as he gets a look at the fighter’s face—

—it’s James. His long hair blows across his face but it’s like he’s blazing, there’s a strange sort of cold, pure focus to him, and something in the darkest lizard recesses of Steve’s brain whispers that this is what James’ body is for. It is a weapon, and one that James has clearly wielded regularly. As James hauls a fist back to batter the guy he’s holding again, Steve also realises that James won’t stop. He’s going to kill them.

Steve scrabbles messily to his feet and throws himself at James, getting his arms around James’ elbow and gasping “stop, stop, James, please stop, don’t kill them.” James’ head turns around and he looks Steve right in the eyes. It’s like James isn’t there. There’s just… a burning coldness, where Steve is used to seeing shy warmth. He’s half-expecting James to just fling him into the nearest wall but James blinks, and then lowers his arm, lowers both his arms, and lets Steve and the bleeding, barely-conscious assailant onto the ground.

“They were hurting you,” James says softly.

And Steve is suddenly furious. All his terror and panic and exhaustion does a U-turn in his gut and comes roaring back out at James as anger. He balls his fists and says, “that’s no reason to kill them! And what are you even doing here, anyway?”

James looks at him in confusion. “I saw them hurting you, so I came.” He says it as if it’s the most natural, logical thing in the world.

“James, what are you doing here, in Bushwick?” Steve asks, his voice low but knife-edged. “Are you stalking me?”

“N-no,” James says, half turning and indicating towards the northwest, towards Manhattan. “I was on the museum roof, and—“

“Oh my god,” Steve says. “I knew it. You’re sleeping rough in the museum.” Then his brain does the math. “Wait. The museum is a forty-five minute subway ride away. You are stalking me. You can’t do that. You have to stop. If I see you in my neighborhood again, I swear I’ll call the—”

James is doing that thing where he tries to make himself as small as possible and Steve feels terrible. But Steve’s brain then fixates on the word he didn’t say: police. And four badly injured drunk guys bleeding all over the alley. He grabs James’ sleeve. “Come with me,” he hisses. It’s like trying to pull a brick wall.

James is looking at the dumpster, his head tilted. Then he walks away from Steve and crouches down, extending a hand spotted with someone else’s blood.

Shit, Steve thinks. The dog.

Steve glances back at his four would-be tormentors. The two least injured of them are scooping the more badly injured ones off the ground and they’re making for the end of the alley nearest the bars. He and James have to be out of there before they call the cops, an ambulance, or both. He thinks the guys are too drunk to be able to describe either him or James properly, but still.

He turns to James in time to see the dirty, shivering little dog pull itself out from under the dumpster. It’s some sort of pit bull, either a puppy or just a very small adult. It limps straight up to James, and licks his bloody fingers submissively before allowing James to scoop it up into his arms.

“Now we can go,” says James.

Steve takes him towards the alley’s other end, by the dark, closed supermarket, and around the corner and he’s two blocks from his apartment before he realises that none of this is an especially good idea. He stops under a streetlight and exhales. “James,” he begins.

“I did something wrong, didn’t I,” says James, in that cowed voice of his. The puppy in his arms looks up and licks his chin.

And all Steve’s planned speech goes out the window. What he manages is, “Why are you following me? Not right now, but why did you… appear?”

“I’m…” James halts, like he can’t find the right words. “You were the first person to be kind to me, when you didn’t have to. So I thought I could be your guardian.”

Steve puts his hands on his hips. He’s so tired, and he’s got the museum and Art League work tomorrow, and the book outline is due Monday. All he wants to do is go home and see how late Seamless delivers. “I don’t need a guardian, James.”

James makes a little questioning sound and gestures in the direction of the alley, his painfully beautiful face expressing disbelief.

“Ugh,” Steve groans, blushing. “They would have thrown me in the dumpster and then left.”

James frowns. “Being thrown in a dumpster is not acceptable,” he replies.

“Look, I’ve had worse, okay?” Steve huffs.

James frowns deeper. “Bad things happening to you in the past does not mean you continue to deserve these bad things.”

Steve feels dizzy. Talking to James is… weird. He changes the subject. “James, you were a soldier before…” he gestures vaguely at James now. “Before you came to New York?”

James’ brow furrows. “Uh… sort of?”

“Okay. First, you scared me back in that alley. I know you thought you were helping but Jesus Christ, you almost ripped their heads off. You’re… really big, and really really good at violence and I don’t like that and it is freaking me out that you are following me and thanks but no thanks, I don’t need a guard—“

And then the world closes in on Steve, his sight vignetting into a wavy, blurry pinpoint as his legs turn to jelly, and his last conscious thought is, I really should have eaten something in the last 24 hours.

He briefly comes to, curled up against a broad, warm chest, a thin cotton tee the only thing between him and a nipple that’s erect from the evening’s chill. He’s vaguely aware he’s being carried; he’s vaguely aware they’re being followed by a skinny, dirty dog, then a hand brushes his hair and says ssssh, rest now, and Steve falls back asleep.

* * *

Steve’s alarm goes off at 7:30 and he sits up, rubbing his eyes. It’s been another night of weird dreams, all that stuff about the alley and James but at least the dreams didn’t keep waking him up like—

—then he sees the dog. It’s curled up at the end of his bed, much cleaner than it was before. It shyly thumps the end of its tail against the covers. It’s white with a very pink nose and black freckles and way too skinny and small and Steve thinks, fuck my life.

He now, apparently, owns a dog. Which means he has to get dog food. And figure out someone to walk it while he’s at work all day.

He also apparently was carried home by James after passing out in the street last night. Which isn’t embarrassing at all. More worryingly, James somehow found out where he lived, brought him there, tucked him up in bed, and gave the dog a bath.

The dog whines, and army-crawls up the bed to stick its nose under Steve’s armpit. It’s shivering. He reaches out with his other hand and gently scratches it behind the ears.

Steve stares up at the ceiling and prays for strength to make it through this day without losing his shit at someone.

Thank God Natasha is working today, he thinks, because she can look after the dog in her office, and she can also advise him what to do about James. Despite everything, despite James’ terrifying competence at ultra-violence, he has a good feeling about the man. He’s definitely a weirdo, though, and Steve remains freaked out that James just seemed to appear in the alley, like he was watching from a rooftop. And that he now knows where Steve is. Steve knows that he probably mumbled out his address when he briefly came ‘to last night, but still. Natasha will tell him exactly how freaked out he needs to be, and what steps he should take.

He gets up, showers, throws some clothes on, and grabs the old newspaper-delivery bag he uses when he goes to sketch in the park. The dog is surprisingly okay with being put in it, and she— Steve finally got a look and it’s definitely a she— seems happy enough with her head stuck out from under the flap, observing the world from a safe spot. He swings by the bodega for a protein bar and a can of dog food and heads down into the subway.

Approximately half the subway car takes pictures of the dog and Steve, and at first he’s annoyed but by the end of the ride he can’t help but be buoyed up by people’s simple joy in seeing something cute on their morning commute. He’s just not used to the cute thing being him. The guy sitting next to him asks the dog’s name and where she came from, and Steve stutters for a moment before answering, “Freckles,” and then wincing, because it’s such a lame name. The dog wriggles in the bag, and Steve realises she’s trying to wag her tail. She wiggles a little more and sticks her nose out and kisses him and he rolls his eyes as the girl standing in front of him goes, “awwww” and pulls out her phone.

* * *

There’s a fancy pet shop a few blocks from the museum and Steve stops in to get Freckles a collar and a leash, but ends up yelling at the owner when the man presumes to tell Steve that “that sort of dog” is dangerous and can’t come into the store, and besides, they only cater to small dogs anyway. Steve really loses it when the guy pulls out the old saw of the owner’s just as vicious the dog, and Steve briefly glances over his shoulder at the rooftops, halfway hoping that James would appear and just… loom at the guy a bit. Not actually hurt him, just stare at him a bit in that cold, focused way James sometimes has.

But no. No James. Maybe, Steve thinks, maybe he chased James off for good. Something in his gut is unhappy about that.

The good mood from the subway ride has evaporated completely by the time Steve stomps the ten blocks uptown to Petco and then guilt-spends about $200 on the required collar and leash, plus a bed and kibble and four different kinds of dog toys and some all-natural treats. Then he stomps back down to the museum, a giant shopping bag in each hand and Freckles trailing behind him on leash, stopping to smell everything.

Steve can tell Natasha isn’t pleased about him showing up in the security office with a dog and a metric fuckton of pet supplies, but she takes one look at his face and just indicates a corner where he can set up Freckles’ bed. He apologizes to her over and over, and promises to run up every break and walk the dog.

“You okay?” She says, knowing the answer perfectly well.

Steve shakes his head. “The past two days have been a lot,” he says.

“I heard Hot Café Guy came back,” she smirks.

All the breath leaves Steve as if he’s been punched. “Yeah,” Steve says. Then he remembers: Sam is expecting to test James for the internship today. He pulls out his phone and holds up a finger to forestall the coming interrogation he can see in Natasha’s expression.

STEVE: Hey Sam about James

SAM: Oh yeah haha what did you do to him

SAM: He walked in here, sat down, frowned at me and said “how is Steve still alive”

SAM: I snorted coffee on a Mycenean tablet from 1200 BC

SAM: STEVE WHAT DID YOU DO

SAM: also he aced the internship test

SAM: Dr Banner and him are insulting each other in Ancient Greek rn, I love my job

SAM: btw what were you going to say?

STEVE: Nothing, nvm

STEVE: Oh I got a dog

SAM: !!!!

SAM: picccccccccs

Steve sighs and snaps a quick photo of Freckles with her big stupid pink nose and her heartmeltingly adorable expression and sends it to Sam before heading down to open up the shop. He gets back five messages from Sam, all of which are various combinations of emoji.

It’s a thankfully busy morning in the shop, with two school groups and several tours. Steve is run off his feet selling postcards and tote bags and books and it’s great, he thinks, life is finally getting back to normal.

And then Peter runs in, eyes wide, and says there’s someone from the Vatican calling themselves a Shadow Cardinal and asking to speak to the curator immediately and Dr Banner isn’t answering in his office.

Steve rakes his hands through his hair, puts Peter in charge of the shop, and trudges out to the information desk to see what fresh hell awaits him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello here is a [Sumerian buttsex joke](http://mostlydeadlanguages.tumblr.com/post/172012566633/a-sumerian-dirty-joke-sp-2100-im-058659) thank you for reading


	4. Chapter 4

Steve doesn’t know what a Shadow Cardinal is supposed to look like, but of several groups of people milling around the information desk, he’s pretty sure it’s the imposing-looking black guy with the eyepatch and the dark suit. It’s not just that he’s standing with his hands clasped behind his back, not picking up maps and exhibition flyers like the rest. It’s also the two big guys in sunglasses — one almost albino; the other a medium skin tone — that flank him.

So Steve marches up and sticks his hand out to Eyepatch Guy, who doesn’t move. After a moment, Steve withdraws his hand, feeling awkward. “Hi, I’m Steve Rogers, with the museum. You must be Cardinal…?”

“Fury,” the man says. “Cardinal Fury.”

Steve desperately wants to ask if there’s also a Cardinal Gluttony and a Cardinal Lust, but figures discretion is the better part of valor at this point. His eyes glance across Fury’s two bodyguards. The albino one is slowly turning his head to look around the atrium, nostrils flaring, as if he’s scenting something. Then he focuses on Steve, and his nostrils flare again. Steve has a brief moment of anxiety — does he still smell like that awful alley behind the supermarket? — before Cardinal Fury interrupts his thoughts.

“I don’t have much time, and need to speak to Dr Banner on urgent Vatican business,” the Cardinal says.

“Yes, well, the curator is downstairs in the Conservation department at the moment looking at some new acquisitions. If you just give me a sec I’ll go get him—“ Steve begins.

The Cardinal steps forwards. “Exactly what we want to talk to him about. Lead on.”

Steve freezes. He’d ask for ID, but frankly he has no idea what Vatican ID looks like. Instead he manages a weak smile in the Cardinal’s direction, and pulls out his phone. “I’ll just let them know we’re coming.”

STEVE: Help, there’s someone calling himself a Shadow Cardinal who wants to see Dr Banner about the Erskine stuff?! I’m coming down with him. Has 2 huge bodyguards :/

SAM: Wut

NATASHA: Where r u now

STEVE: Atrium, info desk

NATASHA: OK, coming down. Remember your panic button if anything happens b4 I get there

SAM: Dr Banner says shadow cardinals are a thing that exists?

Steve leads the three men through the employees-only door down the steps to the museum’s climate-controlled basement area, where works not on display are stored. Sam’s office and workshop are in the front, better lit and warmer than the dim, cold storage area that takes up most of the back. When Steve brings their uninvited guests into the workshop, Sam and Dr Banner are both standing. Their hands are gloved, standard practice when touching any delicate ancient item. The glass-topped work table is covered with a mix of Sanskrit and Linear B tablets, and curling papyrus hieroglyphic scrolls, and Steve realises they must have been brought out for James’ test.

Dr Banner nods and says, “Cardinal, what can we at the Stark Museum do for you?”

The Cardinal glances down at the work table and frowns. “There was a series of improperly-catalogued Aramaic scrolls in the museum’s purchase from the Erskine collection. It’s recently come to the Vatican’s attention what those scrolls actually contain. They are of little historic interest, but of great importance to the Church, and we would like to requisition them in return for paying the Stark Museum their purchase price.”

“Ah,” Dr Banner says. Dr Banner has a face like an unmade bed, and with his squiffy curls and rumpled shirts he can come off as the epitome of the bumbling academic — a misconception that Steve has watched him use to great tactical purpose. “Golly.” Dr Banner exhales, his eyes widening. “I’d have to speak to Mr Stark about that, and have a longer chat with Dr Wilson, my assistant curator here. You’re, uh, you’re not looking for an immediate answer, are you?”

“We were, actually,” says the Cardinal.

“Well, uh, sometimes it’s quite hard to get ahold of Mr Stark,” Dr Banner demurs, shrinking into himself. “Could we have three days?”

The two bodyguards, Steve notes, barely move. But he thinks he can detect eye movement behind the mirrored sunglasses they wear, and they keep sniffing the air. But when the Cardinal glances over at them, they cease even that, becoming almost unnaturally still. The Cardinal turns back to Dr Banner. “Fine. We’ll come back in three days. Might I see the scrolls in the meantime, to confirm they are what we think they are?”

“Oh!” Says Dr Banner. “Of course.” He starts gently ruffling through the scrolls on the work table with his gloved hands. “They were right here a moment ago…” He _tsks_. “Where have they gone?”

Sam smiles at the Cardinal. It’s not Sam’s friendly smile. It’s Sam’s _get out of my workshop_ smile. “Our new intern was filing them, Dr Banner,” he says.

“Yes, yes, silly me, Dr Wilson, we did ask James to do that,” Dr Banner says, straightening up and turning in a slow 360. “Now where did he go?”

“If you give me your contact details, Cardinal, we can email you photos of the ones we’ve already scanned,” Sam says.

Cardinal Fury’s expression hardens further. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Did you find anything else unusual in your purchases from the Erskine Collection?”

“Nope!” Sam says. “Buncha Egyptian erotic poetry first drafts, got those right here,” he continues, tugging gently on a papyrus corner. “Want to read some? Or I can read them to you.” Sam uncovers more of the scroll, and his clear tenor voice fills the room: “ _I would wash away the unguent from her clothes and wipe my body in her dress . . . I wish I were the signet ring which guards her finger, then I would see her desire every day_.” Sam snorts. “I think that means that Nefertiti likes to flick the imperial shrimp. Want to hear how it ends?”

“Pass,” Cardinal Fury says.

Sam ignores him and keeps reading.. “ _And the band around your breasts, and the beads around your neck. I wish I were your sandal that you would step on me!_ Isn’t this stuff great, I haven’t read poems this bad since LiveJournal bit the dust—”

“We’ll be back in three days to collet the scrolls,” Cardinal Fury snaps, turning on his heel.

“Well, um, it’s very hard to predict how Mr Stark will react, I’ll do my best to convince him but—“ Dr Banner begins.

“He’ll say yes,” Fury says, striding towards the door to upstairs. As he is about to put his hand on it, it opens from the other side, and Natasha’s petite form squeezes past him, her work tablet tucked neatly under her arm as always.

“Hello, Natasha Romanova, also with the museum, Cardinal. Let me help and your friends find your way back out to the public areas,” she says. Natasha somehow manages to briskly usher the Vatican trio up the steps without further antagonizing them.

As the door to the Conservation Department clicks shut and the sound of footsteps fades away, the silence is broken again as Dr Banner groans and plonks himself down on one of the work stools. He starts slowly swiveling around in it, like a small child at the barber’s.

Then, James reappears, quietly slipping in through the door to the storage area. He’s in a white and blue striped sailor shirt and grey skinny jeans, his long hair pulled back in a twist. His big grey-blue eyes flick over Steve, managing to express concern and happiness in a split-second glance. Steve realises he should smile or do something in return, but his face refuses to co-operate.

Dr Banner closes his eyes and tilts his head back to face the ceiling, still slowly turning the chair. “I have a number of questions,” he says.

“So do I,” says Natasha, coming back through the door to upstairs.

Steve presumes that these are rhetorical statements, so he (and everyone else) is a little surprised when James says, “You need to give them the scrolls.”

“What?” Sam says.

James fidgets, glaring down at the work table like he could burn through it with his eyes. “It will be easier for you. Safer.” James isn’t exactly chatty at the best of times, but now it feels like James is having to tear every word out of himself with a superhuman effort.

Steve finds himself drifting over to him, as if pulled by a gravitational force, the pale moon to James’ brilliant sun. “What do you mean?” He asks.

James presses his lips together and shifts his weight from foot to foot. He looks up, his eyes desperate, and Steve realises he’s hoping someone will believe him without further explanation. But Sam, Natasha and Dr Banner all look at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

Acting on instinct, Steve very slowly moves his hand up and puts it on James’ upper arm. He fully expects James to flinch away, but instead the man leans into the touch, ever so slightly.

“The two men with the Cardinal,” James says haltingly. “Did you notice how… blank they were?”

Dr Banner nods, but Natasha says, “how do you mean, blank?”

“They are not people,” James says. “They are…” he twists his lips, searching for the words. Steve squeezes his arm.

“They are perfect weapons,” James continues. Then, as if a dam has been broken, the words tumble out of him. “If you give them an order, they will not, cannot be stopped until they complete that order. They have no opinions, cannot be reasoned with, do not feel pain, or fear, or any other emotion. They exist only to obey.” James looks up, and stares at Dr Banner and Natasha with his strange, grey-eyed gaze. “In three days, if you don’t agree to give them the scrolls, they will come and take them.”

“Like hell they will,” Natasha says. “They can’t get in here. Our security is the best in—“

James’ mouth twists into a sad smile. “They can go anywhere they want. Your alarms will not detect them. Nor will your cameras. The scrolls will simply… vanish.”

“Bullshit,” Natasha says, but Steve is remembering the second time he ever saw James, in Gallery 124, before the museum opened.

“Natasha, can you access the camera feeds from your tablet?” Steve asks.

“Duh,” Natasha says.

“Okay. Can you pull up the feed from when I met the Cardinal at the information desk? Or when he and you came out of here?”

“Sure,” says Natasha, already bent over her tablet, scrolling through footage. “I’ll grab the feed rom when I took them out because that’s the most recent—“. Then she swears under her breath.

She tilts the tablet up so they can all see. It’s a frozen image of Natasha and the Cardinal walking through the atrium towards the exit. Nobody else is with them.

“Where did Thing 1 and Thing 2 go?” Sam asks.

“They didn’t go anywhere,” Natasha says, her tone seething. “They were right there.” Her finger jabs the empty area directly behind the image of the Cardinal.

Dr Banner raises his eyebrows at James, his expression mild and kind. “James, how do you know all this? And what are those scrolls to the Vatican?”

“The scrolls detail how to summon and bind those… creatures,” James says, softly. “How to put them into stasis when you aren’t using them, and how to wake them again. The Shadow Cardinal’s office is probably the safest place for them, if you aren’t willing to destroy them. The Vatican will bury the scrolls within its vaults so they will never be found or misused again.”

“The scrolls are about angels,” Sam whispers. “They’re about summoning angels. I thought it was just the usual crazy early Church shit but are you telling me this is real? Because newsflash, this can’t be real—“

“It can,” Dr Banner says, wearily.

Sam’s head swivels to Dr Banner, but Dr Banner holds up a finger, stopping Sam’s incoming tirade. “I, I don’t talk about this much,” Dr Banner begins, “but I come from a very old Catholic family. Educated by Jesuits, the whole deal. I was supposed to go into the Society of Jesus myself rather than into lay academia but, ah, let’s just say I had some anger problems in my youth and rebelled against my family and everything they stood for. They can, they can only call you a monster so many times and expect you to come back. _Aaanyhow_ …” he sighs, deflating a little more, “this sort of thing is whispered in some of the more hardcore circles of Catholicism. That there’s a lost gospel, that tells you how to summon angels. To summon holy warriors.” Dr Banner smiles. “As you can imagine, the search for this gospel was big during the Crusades. It was rumored to be buried in Jerusalem.”

“Fuuuck,” Sam breathes.

“I’m an academic from old Jesuit blood, though, and all I’ve heard are whispers. I’m interested in how you know so much about them, James? Among all your other talents?” Dr Banner says, his mild expression back in place.

James blushes, his eyes widening in panic. He steps away from Steve, as if contemplating flight.

He never gets the chance to answer, because Tony Stark comes barreling into the Conservation Department, wearing a dark purple suit over a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, with yellow sunglasses on, and talking a mile a minute in what definitely doesn’t qualify as an Inside Voice. “Okay, I just got called by the Vatican and ordered around, that’s always fun for a Jew, and before that by Justin Hammer, all about some scrolls we have and—“ Stark stops abruptly as his eyes reach James. Stark isn’t much taller than Steve, so his gaze naturally hits the broadest part of James’ frankly ridiculous chest. Stark looks up, then turns to Dr Banner, flapping a hand in James’ direction. “Who the hell is this?”

“Our new intern,” Dr Banner says.

Stark turns back to James and lowers his sunglasses, looking the man up and down. “Did Pepper put you up to this?” Stark asks Banner. “Is this payback for hiring those two strippers as receptionists? Because I was just trying to help a couple nice girls pay for college.” Before Banner can answer, Stark looks at James again, then reaches out and prods one of his biceps. James’ eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t flinch. “Wow, those aren’t inflatable. They look inflatable. Or did you hire him to lift heavy things? I’m hurt, we have robots for that,” Stark pouts.

“We hired him for his language capabilities,” Dr Banner says.

“Oh, is he a cunning linguist? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Stark says.

“James, please tell Mr Stark what you think of him, in Aramaic,” Dr Banner sighs.

James smirks. His lips form words in a long-dead language and Steve becomes uncomfortably aware that this may just be a newly-discovered kink for him.

Sam snorts with glee. “Oh my god, you went there,” he whispers at James.

James smiles and shrugs.

“Also what did that last part mean?” Sam asks.

“I’ll tell you later,” James says.

“Well that’s great,” Stark says, snapping his fingers, “but I need everyone out of here but myself and Dr Banner. Grownups have to talk. Shoo.”

As they’re filing out, Dr Banner tugs on Steve’s sleeve. Steve leans in and Dr Banner quietly asks, “As James is your friend, do you think we can trust what he says?”

Steve’s mind reels. Is James his friend? He’s uncomfortably aware of how his attraction to James is clouding his judgement, and the rational part of him is still not down with James apparently stalking him from Bushwick rooftops. But then he looks down at the work table. From where he and Dr Banner are standing, its glass surface reflects perfectly the image of his friends waiting for him by the door.

He elbows Dr Banner and covertly indicates the reflection. At how it only shows two of the three people standing together by the door.

At how James’ reflection doesn’t exist.

And if, later, Steve had to point to the first moment where he realised there was something very, very different about James, it was there, in the workshop, looking down at a glass-topped table. At a man who wasn’t there.

* * *

“Want to grab a coffee?” Sam says, once they emerge into the museum atrium again. “Because I need to sit down and process all this crazy, possibly with the help of baked goods.”

Steve coughs. “I can’t. I have to relieve Peter from the shop.” He grabs for Natasha’s sleeve, desperately. “Come with me for a sec?”

Natasha takes one look at Steve’s expression and nods. They stride off quickly, leaving a confused James and Sam in their wake. As Steve walks away, he can hear Sam say to James, “You hungry, big guy?”

Steve glances back. James has placed a hand over his flat, muscled stomach. “I think so?” he says.

Sam sighs. “When did you last eat?”

“Hmm,” James says, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Steve turns away again once he’s sure Sam is propelling James towards the café, and hopefully as many sandwiches as he can eat. He’s met by Natasha’s amused smirk and raised eyebrow.

“I worry about him,” Steve huffs.

“Mm-hmm,” Natasha says.

Peter looks up from the gift shop counter and when he sees Steve, he gasps like a man experiencing Salvation.

“Thanks, Peter,” Steve says, giving the teenager a quick hug as they swap positions behind the register.

Natasha ruffles Peter’s hair as he passes, then squeezes in next to Steve. She rests her elbows on the counter and blinks up at him. “So what’s the fire?” She purrs.

“Nothing,” Steve says, trying to keep his tone light. “Just wanted the gossip on what happened at the Hammer Warehouse.”

“Ohh,” Natasha grins, sidling closer and dropping her voice. “So, one of the things Hammer bought from the Erskine sale was this big sarcophagus. The thing weighed a ton and if you ask me, was ugly as sin. No carvings, nothing. Just a big black stone box. Anyway, the workmen get it halfway off the pallet onto the warehouse floor, and then the quitting bell rings. So they just fuck off and leave it like that.” Natasha touches his arm, the dimples in her cheeks showing her merriment. “Apparently the lid slowly slid off in the night and broke all over the floor. Hammer was spitting nails he was so mad.”

“When did it happen?” Steve asks.

“About four or five days ago,” Natasha says. “Why do you ask?”

Steve fidgets. Natasha is, with Sam, among the people he trusts most in the world, and if there was anyone he could open up to about his weird experiences with James, it would be her. He remembers how keen he was this morning to corner her and ask about James showing up in the alley, if she thought it was stalking. But now that seems like a million years ago, after the Vatican visiting, and holy warriors that cast no reflections, and strange dreams.

He can’t get James’ phrasing out of his head: _Those aren’t people. They’re perfect weapon_ s. But… James is a person. A clumsy, charming, boundary-ignoring, blushing person, who speaks several ancient languages fluently and refuses to eat meat.

And who also went blank and almost killed some drunk dudebros with ruthless hyper-efficiency.

Steve is chewing his lip when Natasha interrupts. “I will give you a whole $20 for your thoughts.”

He puts a hand out. “Fair enough. I’m trying to figure out if I need a dog walker or doggie daycare for Freckles, and if I can afford it.”

“Liar,” Natasha says, flicking his palm. “And you can’t afford either, with your hours. I’ll get Clint to walk her. He’s only a short bike ride from your place. Bring some spare keys in for him. Oh, and you’ll also need to get her to the vet to have her shots done and have her spayed.”

She flicks his hair for good measure and pushes herself off from the counter. “See you later when you come up to walk Miss Freckles. I have footage to go through.”

“The Case of the Disappearing Priests?” Steve says.

“Or whatever they are,” mutters Natasha.

“Do you believe him?” Steve asks, the words out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“No, because science,” Natasha says.

“Hey what happened to the teenage girl who used to write about fallen angels in her LiveJour— no, don’t flick me again, aargh!” Steve flails, and whacks Natasha’s hand away.

Natasha smiles at him over her shoulder as she leaves. “She grew up, unfortunately. And nobody came to save her.”

Steve passes a fretful afternoon in the gift shop, every little question from a customer, no matter how innocent, seeming to rub him the wrong way. He has to work extra hard to be friendly and helpful.

He finds, though, when he dashes up on break to take Freckles out, he’s genuinely happy to see the little dog. His grumpiness fades in the face of her happy dance and full-body wiggle when she spots him. He carries her downstairs and all the way outside so she doesn’t have an accident in the atrium, and genuinely starts laughing when halfway down the museum steps she starts licking his face. He’ll ask Dr Banner tomorrow if Freckles can stay with him in the gift shop; her bed could easily fit behind the counter.

When Steve returns to the security office, Natasha is still hunched over the CCTV screens, scrolling through the morning’s footage with one hand as she types on a laptop with another. She’s still like that three hours later, when Steve comes up to take Freckles home for the night.

“Hey, can you see if Sam’s still downstairs?” Steve asks.

“Text him,” Natasha mutters.

STEVE: U still at work?

SAM: Yep me n ur boy translating the weeeeird shit

STEVE: He is not my boy

“Yeah, he’s still there,” Natasha says, and Steve looks up. Natasha indicates one of the video screens, which now shows a high-angle view of Sam’s workshop, the glass worktable gleaming in the light under a pile of scrolls. Only Sam is at the table.

Steve watches. Sam is clearly talking, pointing out a line of Aramaic on one of the scrolls with one hand, while he tucks his phone back in his pocket with the other. Sam looks at the space to his left expectantly, as if waiting for an answer.

“So, uh, Sam texted back and says James is there too,” Steve ventures.

Natasha makes a sound that’s half-growl, half-scream, and hits the desk so hard her laptop almost bounces off it. Then she folds forwards, her forehead smacking against the keyboard.

Miss Freckles whines and tries to tuck her snout under Steve’s trouser cuff.

“Okay, I’m just gonna go down and say hi to both of them, have a nice night, Natasha, thanks for looking after my Surprise Dog.”

Natasha gives him an “OK” symbol with her right hand, but doesn’t lift her forehead off her desk.

Steve scoops up his bags of dog swag and figures he’s not technically breaking the museum’s “no pets except service animals” rule if Miss Freckles’ paws don’t touch the museum floor, so he bundles her in his arms too and heads down to Conservation.

James and Sam have the Aramaic scrolls all over the worktable, the soft cotton gloves on their hands as they both lean over a particular scroll. James’ hair falls out from behind his ear and across his face. Steve becomes fascinated by the play of muscles in James’ forearm as he tucks the hair back behind his ear again.

James looks up first and gives him a shy wave and a smile. Then he’s on his feet, effortlessly divesting Steve of his burdens, including Miss Freckles, who immediately snuggles against James’ chest. _Traitor_ , Steve thinks.

Sam looks up and gives a “Hey, Steve!” But then his head swivels to Miss Freckles, nestled in James’ arms, and he coos, “Heyyy, puppy!”

“How’s it going?” Steve says, trying to keep the tiredness out of his voice. It's been a long week.

“Oh, great,” Sam deadpans as he ruffles Miss Freckles’ pink and white ears. “Banner wants all of this translated by lunchtime Monday. James is a big help.” Sam shakes his head at Steve, his expression serious. “I’m glad to have someone with me on this. This stuff, man. It’s just batshit crazy and wrong. I kinda hope we do just give it to the Vatican because I don’t want this out there, on the Internet. Someone will try it.”

It’s one of the founding tenets of the Stark Museum that all its documents and collections are reproduced in the highest possible resolution online, for scholars and anyone else to access. So, theoretically, part of Sam’s job is uploading all those Aramaic scrolls in original and with hover-over translations for the world to see.

“I’m almost afraid to ask what’s so bad about them,” Steve says, sitting down on a spare workstool.

“Where do I begin,” sighs Sam. He sorts through the scrolls on the table and gently fishes one out from where others cover it up. “Oh, wait, this bit’s great. _It is of crucial importance to sever the warrior’s wings upon waking; cauterize the stumps with fire so they do not regrow_.” Sam looks up and just raises an eyebrow.

Steve shudders. “Why didn’t the warriors rebel—“

“—they’re not people,” James says. “They don’t think as people. They don’t have opinions on their treatment. You can do whatever you want to them. It doesn’t matter.”

“It’s still disgusting,” Sam says. “They’re worse than slaves.” Then he pushes the scroll aside and looks at James, as Freckles tries to bite the pieces of James’ long hair that have come loose from their elastic. “I swear you’re 200% more together than you were two days ago.”

James blushes and ducks his head, which only serves to give Freckles better access to tasty locks of hair. “I’m learning,” he says. “It’s a lot.”

“What is?” Steve asks.

“Being… here. Being independent,” James replies.

Sam narrows his eyes at James. “When we’re not dealing with scary Vatican dudes all up in our collection, we’re taking you out to dinner and you’re going to tell us where you were before this. Because I still have many, many questions.”

James shrugs. “It’s not very interesting.” Freckles has settled down in his lap and looks up at him, her tail thumping against one of his thighs, when he speaks.

Steve’s not at all jealous.

He realises he’s staring, and tears his gaze back to the pile of scrolls on the table. “You really think… this tells you how to summon actual angels? Not just random superstition? I mean, there’s that demon book too…” (Steve actually quite likes the demon book. It has good illustrations, and all the demons have incredibly melodramatic names. It was all the work of a 15th century monk who had clearly licked a lot of lead paint in his youth.)

But Sam just puts up a finger. “In light of current events, I wanna remind you of something else that came with this collection.” He slides off his stool and heads into the storage area in back. Steve can hear lights flicking on as Sam walks down the long aisles of shelves, looking for something.

Sam comes back fairly quickly with a big smile on his face and a hand behind his back. When he’s sure both James and Steve are looking at him, he goes “ta-da!”

And pulls a long blue and grey feather from behind his back.

“That’s a big fucking bird,” Steve says, before he can stop his mouth.

Sam just raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Or _is_ it.”

The feather is beautiful. Cobalt blue at the tip, fading to a lighter blue, with hints of buff and grey as it gets closer to its root. The whole thing shines, like it just fell.. Not like a battered dusty old thing that’s been living in a scroll case for however long.

“Oh, and now you’re not doing so well any more,” Sam says, putting the feather down on the work table. Steve follows Sam’s gaze. James is pale, his eyes huge, and he’s staring at the feather. He’s completely still, unnaturally so, every muscle in his body tense.

Sam looks at James, looks at the feather, looks back at James, says, “okay, nope,” picks up the feather, and walks away with it.

Steve is half off his stool, about to go over and touch James to see if he can break him out of his strange trance, when Freckles does it for him, nudging under James’ shirt and poking him in the side with her nose. James startles — not enough to dislodge Freckles, but Steve sees it, how he comes back to himself all of a sudden.

“You okay?” Steve whispers.

James nods, looking down, absentmindedly scritching Freckles’ head.

Sam walks back in without the feather. He yawns and stretches, his joints popping in protest from so long hunched over the worktable. “I’m heading home. Get out of here, I want to lock up. Especially you, Steve. You look dead on your feet.”

“I don’t!” Steve grumbles, settling his newspaper bag across his body again, but he can feel the exhaustion at the back of his eyes. Friday night is his one night off teaching, and while most people his age are out in the trendy bars that are scattered across Bushwick like an unwelcome rash, he spends the first night of the weekend catching up on his sleep.

“Uh-huh,” Sam says, taking off his work gloves and reaching for his jacket. “And eat something other than ramen!”

“Ugh, yes, Dad,” Steve grumbles. He feels a warm presence at his side and it’s James, he’s so close, and he’s reaching in to Steve’s newspaper bag to settle Freckles in there. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to James before. James isn’t… he doesn’t really do touching, or close proximity to other people. But now he’s arched over Steve, bracketing him, and he’s so tall, and if Steve just tilts his head up—

—James steps away.

Freckles wiggles in her bag and Steve can feel her tail thump. Steve scoops up the rest of his pet supplies, smiles awkwardly, and says “see you all Monday!” Then he flees. He can hear Sam and James talking as he leaves. _You don’t have a phone, do you? Because I might work on some of these translation scans this weekend. No, I’m sorry. If you come to the museum I can meet you…? Yeah, that might work. Lemme think…_  
  
Steve’s thoughts during his ride home on the 6, then the L, are about nothing but James. Maybe because his mind is so much on the darn book, the outline of which is due Monday. Maybe it’s the strange gnostic scrolls with their talk of supernatural warriors, and the unexpected Vatican visitors they brought. But he can’t get his mind off how their strange, shy visitor might be something… different from human.

Steve never considered himself a religious man. He assumed the Catholicism of his Irish forebears had worn off by his mother’s generation, like the the devotional statues of the small Brooklyn church she still went to on holy days, rubbed down to the point the wood showed through. Steve had stopped going as soon as he went to art school. It wasn’t cool, to be sneaking off to church, when instead you could wear leather jackets and drink cheap wine and talk deep into the night about conceptual art. Representational art was so passé, and religious art? That was just fanfic. He had ignored the little twang in his heart when he said these things to his friends back then, more eager to impress them than be honest with himself.

Even now, Steve tells himself he appreciates religion for the huge amount of works of art and literature it inspired, but that he believes only in science. Rationality. The ability of mankind to explain the workings of the universe.

And yet, James is inexplicable. A man who has no money, yet wears the sort of clothes that grace the covers of magazines. Who can’t answer basic questions about himself, but speaks dead languages fluently. Who fights with a balletic, terrifying ease. Who cannot be reflected, or recorded. And who is so beautiful, he’s almost painful to look at, like gazing directly at the sun during an eclipse.

(He had smelled of musk and lime and something else, new steel, when he’d been so close to Steve…)

Freckles is tired after her big day, and she rests quietly in the newspaper bag, head tucked outside the flap, for most of the journey. She seems to sense whenever Steve gets too wrapped up in his thoughts, as she’d nudge his hand with her cold little nose until he gives her a few pets.

Steve steps off the L train at DeKalb determined not to think about it any more. There’s nothing he can do about it, so worrying the topic like a dog with a bone won’t accomplish anything but keep him up. (Not to mention that any attempt to parse James’ strangeness ends with Steve thinking about that body and, well, that’s starting to keep another part of him up.)

The sky is grey and heavy with storm clouds when Steve gets to the street. He gently scoops Miss Freckles out of her bag and onto the pavement, then he quick-walks the eight blocks home. Freckles keeps casting worried glances overhead and tugging on her leash, as if to say, hurry, hurry. The first fat raindrops patter the back of his neck as he’s fumbling for his keys, and by the time he dumps his bag on the little sofa in his tiny studio apartment, the storm is a percussive force against the roof and windowpanes.

So much for nipping back out on a grocery run.

(He’d been avoiding the grocery store, anyway, ever since — well, you know.)

Freckles inhales her bowl of dog chow while Steve nukes his ramen in the microwave. While it’s cooking, he plops down on the couch and flips through the sketchbook he’s been doing his How To Draw Fallen Angels layouts in, and shakes his head. He’s going to have to sketch all weekend to have anything ready in time for Monday. The wing studies are all looking okay, but he hasn’t done any of the actual model studies yet and his editor wanted to okay the poses.

The microwave dings, and Steve shuts the sketchbook with a sigh. He collects the styrofoam cup of noodles, blowing on them, digs takeaway chopsticks and a spoon out of his cutlery drawer, and settles back on the couch. The sky is already so dark outside, he flicks on the floor lamp wedged into the corner.

He has a mouthful of still-too-hot noodles when there’s a loud sound at his window, like a bird striking it. But that’s unlikely, during a rainstorm.

He startles, choking a little on ramen, and puts the styrofoam cup down. The noise comes again, a sharp tap. Steve stands, fear prickling down his neck. He lives on the seventh floor. There’s a fire escape outside, but he’d always felt safe, so far up—

A large, pale hand presses against the windowpane.

Steve screams.

Freckles shoots off the couch, then tries to crawl _under_  it.

Steve glances around. He has a baseball bat in the closet, if he can just—

The hand taps on the glass again, and Steve forces himself to look.

And then he recognises the dark hair and sharp cheekbones of the face looking in at him, bedraggled as it is by rain.

Steve stomps over to the window, undoes the locks, and throws it open. “God damn it, James, what the hell do you think you’re doing?!” He shouts, his body still 100% in fight-or-flight mode.

James eases his broad self through the open window and then straightens up again. He just stands there, dripping, in his striped shirt and skinny jeans on Steve’s floor, clutching to his chest one of the plastic tubes Sam uses to store scrolls.

Steve puts his hands on his hips. His heart is still racing in terror and he can’t get enough air in and if he gets triggered into an asthmatic attack tonight, he’s going to kill someone.

“I need a favour,” James says, extending the scroll case. “Please.”

Steve steps around him and shuts the window, then snatches the scroll case out of James’ hands. He twists the handle at the top of it, trying to unscrew the end-cap, but it’s stuck.

Then a large, wet hand reaches over his small one, and Steve can feel James’ strength as the man applies a little more rotational pressure and lo, the top unscrews.

Inside is one of the Aramaic scrolls... and that feather.

“James, you stole these!” Steve says, horrified at the items James is dumping unceremoniously onto his coffee able. “You have to take them back right now!”

James shrinks, ashamed. Then in a quiet voice he says, “It’s not stealing if it’s yours to begin with.”

“Oh my god,” Steve says. “I’m going to call Sam. Put those back in the case. No, wait, dry your hands, then put them back.”

Steve stomps off to grab his phone. He pulls up Sam’s contact details and is debating whether it’s better to send Sam a text or call him (since Sam does go out on Friday nights, like a normal person) when he hears the sound of flipping pages from behind him. Steve whirls around.

James is paging through his sketchbook, and frowning. He’s still soaking wet and if Steve has to redo his sketches for Monday because of water damage he’s going to lose his mind.

“Put that down!” Steve says, his voice coming out loud and sharp. “Right now!”

James throws the sketchbook down on the coffee table; it hits the cheap Ikea MDF with a bang, and Steve’s too-fast heart stutters.

“Please do not order me around,” James growls.

“Please use the door like a normal person!” Steve shouts, pointing at the perfectly good door with its perfectly good intercom system.

James’ fists are balled tight at his sides, the knuckles white. “I am trying. It is hard. I have been here. For. Four. Days.”

“Try harder!” Steve says. “Doors are a thing! Look, you’ve stalked me, you’ve invaded my home, you’ve stolen from my place of work, and also I now have a dog because of you!”

“I’ve been guarding you,” James says, his voice low and dangerous.

“I NEVER ASKED FOR THAT!” Steve shouts, throwing his hands up in the air.

“They would have hurt you,” James says. And he’s close now, looming over Steve, reminding him of their height and size difference.

And Steve _loses_ it. Sure, from an aesthetic point of view, he finds James’ thick chest and arms corded with muscle to be attractive, but he hates it when big guys think they’re superior to him just because of their size.

“Look, asshole, I know you think because I’m small that I’m somehow incompetent but I’m 25! I can take care of myself just fine! I could have handled those guys!”

James steps back. Ha. Good.

“No you couldn’t have,” James hisses. “And you can’t draw, either.”

“WHAT?!” Steve says. His fists come up. So help him, he’s going to sock James across his perfect jaw. “You have two seconds to explain yourself and then you can get the _hell_ out of my apartment—“

James snatches up Steve’s sketchbook and wrenches it open. Steve can see about four pages separate from the wire binding and he has to suppress a full-body flinch of anger.

James thrusts one of the pages of anatomy studies at him.

“The pictures, they’re completely wrong,” James says, defiant. “Wings don’t work like that.”

“Oh, okay, thanks for that,” Steve snarls, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And how _should_ the wings be?”

James tosses the sketchbook disdainfully onto the couch.

Steve winces and dives for it as it starts to fall off onto the wet floor. When he looks up, James is taking off his shirt.

And that is… a _lot_ of bare, golden skin.

And then—

 _Wings_.

James glares at him, sullen, shirtless, in wet grey skinny jeans that sit low on his hipbones and shape over his thick thighs. From his back sprouts a pair of wings, cobalt and grey-blue and buff and rose. They’re _huge_. The bottom feathers dust the floor and the tops of them hit his ceiling and bend awkwardly, too big for the space.

"No more orders," says James.

“Oh,” Steve says, as his legs give out and he collapses onto the couch. “Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh, this fic was just supposed to be fluffy, I appear to be incapable of fluff
> 
> [Here's more ancient Egyptian erotic poetry!](http://allthingswildlyconsidered.blogspot.com/2010/09/i-am-not-beside-you-where-will-set-your.html)
> 
> Also [here's a great post](http://x-cetra.tumblr.com/post/172908962167/llywela13-becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys) about how most of the Latinate languages' word for "yes" came from the locals thinking it's cool that Romans went around saying "This!" and then copying them.
> 
> Oh! And some of you asked for reference photos of a dog like Miss Freckles. Here she is:
> 
> A lot of white pit bulls are deaf or have hearing impairment - same as white boxers and merle / harlequin Danes. This in no way makes the dog a difficult pet to have! Deaf dogs are great, in fact even hearing dogs will tend to obey your hand signals and body position rather than your words, so a lot of people don't even realise their pup may be deaf! The only thing to watch out for is if they can't see you, they can't "hear" you, so fenced yards work best for them, and keeping them on leash when walking. I've had deaf dogs and also a wonderful blind dog, seriously, so-called "disabled" dogs make fabulous pets, please consider a pet with special needs! The only thing that holds them back is your perception of them, for real. [There's a lot of great info on deaf dogs here.](https://deafdogsrock.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

Steve is staring at an angel. There is real live angel in his tiny studio apartment, shifting his huge wings awkwardly to try to find a position where they don’t bash into… _everything_.

James huffs in frustration and twist his torso downwards, extending his left wing all the way out to the side so he can bring it in more tightly against him, and that’s when Steve sees it: a small gap in the longest feathers. It’s minor, but noticeable as the only element marring the relentless perfection of James’ form.

“Wait. This is _yours_ ,” Steve says, picking up the feather on his coffee table.

“Obviously,” James snaps. He flicks his right wing in annoyance and manages to knock the pens and rulers off Steve’s drawing table, then hisses something in Aramaic. He rolls his shoulders, and the wings are gone, but his tension remains. He points at the feather in Steve’s hands. “If they have that, and if they have my name, they can control me again. And I don’t want to go back.”

James’ hand is shaking, as he draws it back in to his chest. “I won’t. I don’t want more orders. I don’t want that, don’t want to be bound again. Please don’t make me go back.” He crumples to his knees, his broad shoulders bowing inwards. “Please—“ he says, his voice choked off. “Please hide it.”

Steve scoots off the couch and over to James. The panic attack James had at the museum café, that first day? Yeah, this is about twice as bad, as far as Steve can tell. It’s all the more noticeable for how well James has been doing the past couple days. “Can I touch you?” Steve says, his hand hovering next to James’ bare shoulder.

James nods, his curtain of wet hair swaying.

Steve lays his hand gently on James’ shoulder, then moves it around in what he hopes is a soothing little circle on the near side of James’ back. God, but James is _solid_ muscle.

And then circa 250lbs of perfect warrior is twisting, throwing his arms around Steve and pulling him into his chest in a desperate embrace. Steve finds himself pretty much scooped up into James’ lap, James wrapped around him like a very thick octopus. James’ face is wedged into the side of Steve’s neck, and Steve can smell the rain on him, feel how damp his skin and his jeans are.

“I won’t go back to being that,” he says, the words spoken into Steve’s skin. “I—“

Then James pulls away, his hands releasing Steve as they travel instead up to his own face. Steve leans back, off balance all of a sudden, sprawled awkwardly across James’ thighs.

James touches the new wetness on his cheekbones, his face a mask of pained confusion. “What is my body doing _now_ ,” he groans.

Freckles chooses that moment to creep out from where she had pancaked herself under the sofa, and she scuttles up into James’ lap too. One of James’ hands comes down to cup around her back, supporting her. The other wipes frantically at the tears tracking down his face.

“You’re crying,” Steve says. “It’s when—“

“I know what crying is,” James growls, snuffling and swabbing at his eyes. “I just didn’t know it felt so _awful_.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad,” Steve says. He shifts himself onto the ground, then takes a long look at the sobbing supernatural creature next to him and decides that dignity and pride are overrated. He leans against James’ side, resting his head against James’ shoulder and putting a hand on Freckles’ flank. “But my mom used to say, better out than in. And it’s true. You’ll feel better afterwards.”

James just sighs, long and ragged, and rests his cheek on top of Steve’s head.

Steve skritches Freckles’ hip absently. “You were in that sarcophagus, weren’t you,” he asks.

James doesn’t answer with words, but Steve can feel him nod.

Something dark and angry uncoils in Steve’s heart, imagining this magnificent being entombed in a dark stone box. “How long?” Steve says.

“I don’t know,” James says, softly. “Time doesn’t mean a lot to us anyway, and I was asleep. A few centuries? Maybe more? Long enough for my wings to grow back.” James shifts his head to rest his chin on the top of Steve’s head. He frees his arm from where it’s stuck between Steve and Freckles, and loops it around Steve’s waist. “And then… there was light, and I woke up, even though there were no orders. I wasn’t bound there, because part of me was elsewhere. The feather… it was at your museum, and it drew me here.”

“So when I saw you in the café, how long—“ Steve begins.

James chuckles, and Steve can hear it deep in his chest. “I had just woken up. I am… very old. And have never done anything for myself. Never had my own mind. Until now. It’s…. hard, being a person. Making decisions.” His arm tightens slightly around Steve. “I’m glad you rescued me. I didn’t have any money. Didn’t know what money was.”

Steve closes his eyes. He feels like he could die here, just melting into James’ arms, into his embrace. The hot, restless feeling in his chest begins to move lower, and Steve lets it, lets himself indulge in a spark of arousal, here against the solid warmth of this beautiful, powerful creature’s body…

…until he realises that there’s a strong chance James doesn’t even know what sex is, and pulls away, horrified at himself for making the moment dirty. Do angels even have genitals? Steve thinks of and immediately discards at least seven different totally inappropriate ways of finding out.

“What is it?” James says, drawing back into himself.

“Uh, nothing,” Steve stutters, forcing his gaze to stay at shoulder level. “Just, when people are sad, one thing that makes it better is ice cream. Uh, have you ever had ice cream?”

James shakes his head.

Steve stands up, abruptly. “I’m going to get some from the bodega. Stay here.” He grabs his wallet and his umbrella and flees outside into the rainstorm.

* * *

Steve buys six pints of ice cream.

James eats five of them. He still hasn’t put his shirt back on, and Steve is very much having to picture the most hideous elements of Heironymous Bosch paintings in his head to keep from getting distracted.

James finally slows down halfway through the Pistachio. Freckles has her head stuck in the empty Cookies & Cream container as she tries to lick up the last bits at the bottom. James reaches down and pulls it off her snout, then laughs as she looks at him gratefully, wags her tail, and then sticks her head right back in the container. James’ laugh isn’t beautiful, or elegant — it’s more of a surprised bark, as if simple happiness is an unexpected gift.

Then James fidgets, and starts to get up from Steve’s small kitchen table. “I should go,” he says.

“Where will you sleep tonight?” Steve asks, glancing at the rain that still patters against the glass.

James reaches for his discarded shirt. “Probably on the museum roof,” he says.

Steve points out the window. “It’s pouring down outside.”

James smiles, as his head appears through the top of his shirt. “I will develop an opinion about rain, then.”

“I have an opinion about rain,” Steve offers. “It sucks. Look, James, stay here. At least it’s dry.” Steve then looks at James again, at how big he is, and how neither the sofa or the floor are enough room for him. So Steve indicates his own bed, the queen that takes up one whole end of the L-shaped room. “You sleep there. You can develop an opinion about beds, and let me know in the morning.”

James’ brow furrows adorably. “You were trying to make me leave a moment ago…. I don’t understand,” he says.

Steve sighs, and sits down. “Look, when you said you were new here, I didn’t think….” He makes a futile half-circle gesture with one hand, and his voice softens. “I didn’t _realise_  you had just sorta… come to life.”

James looks down, ashamed. “You thought I was some sort of idiot.”

“I didn’t know what to think,” Steve says.

“I’m not stupid,” James says. He looks Steve right in the eye, his jaw tight. He looks like he’s about to start crying again.

“I know,” Steve says, putting his hands up. He goes into the kitchen and makes some mint tea, just to have something to do with his hands. He puts a mug down in front of James, and says, “Please stay. For my sake. I’d worry about you, outside on a night like this.”

James gives Steve a sharply amused look as he picks up the mug. “I’ll be _fine_ , Steve. I’m the most dangerous thing in this city.”

“But what if those two angels who were with Cardinal Fury find you?” Steve says. “That’s two on one.”

James’ heavy-lidded eyes glint at him from over the steaming mug of tea. “They’re only archangels,” he says. “Lower orders. I can take them.” He pauses, staring into the tea, and the brief confidence in his expression falls away. “I’m good for only one thing, but I’m very good at that one thing.”

“That’s not true,” Steve says. “Sam is so happy to have your help on those translations. I think Dr Banner wants to adopt you, a-and I like you too, and none of us like you because you can fight. You’re our _friend_ , and friends take care of each other. Okay, fine, so you might be safe up there on the roof, but won’t you also be cold, wet, and lonely?”

James looks down at his mug and doesn’t answer for a long time. “I know the smell of this,” he says. “It’s familiar.” After a few sips of tea, James’ wry smile returns. It’s happening more and more, that smile, and Steve treasures it every time it appears. “You’re doing more guarding of me than I am of you. It’s not good for my self-esteem.”

“So you’ll stay?” Steve says, a bloom of hope spreading in his chest.

James’ eyes slide over to Steve’s messy bed. “I’m curious about beds now.”

“Okay,” Steve breathes, because that… kinda sounded like a come-on. “You should get out of those wet clothes.” And speaking of come-ons…. Steve immediately blushes so hard he feels he might pass out from the sheer volume of blood rushing to his cheeks. “I don’t want you to get sick!” He squeaks. “Let me see I I have a pair of sweatpants that fit you.”

“I won’t get sick,” James says, getting up off the sofa and sauntering towards the bed.  
  
“Well, you’ll get my bed all wet and then I’ll have to wash the sheets,” Steve says, also mentally planning how he’s never going to wash those sheets ever again. “Let me at least get you a towel.”

There’s another snort from James, and Steve turns to see that James is somehow dry, and wearing nothing but white boxer-briefs. And judging by the soft but sizeable bulge in the front of the briefs, yes, angels very much do have genitals.

“No shirt?” Steve says, forcing his eyes upwards.

“I’d just tear it, in the night.” James shifts his weight awkwardly. “I… wings. And, uh, nightmares,” he says. He sits down on one side of the bed, looks up at Steve, and looks at the other side of the bed, where Steve’s sleep clothes are messily folded on his pillow. It’s not an invitation; James even looks a little afraid.

“What?” Steve says.

“I’m worried about hurting you,” James whispers, his cheeks coloring.

“I was planning to sleep on the sofa,” Steve explains. “I know it’s comfy because it used to belong to my friend Clint, and I slept on it for a couple months at his place in Bed-Stuy before I got the museum job. So I’ll be fine.” Steve makes shooing motions. “You take the bed. Really. It’s fine. I’m just gonna—“ And he reaches past James, grabs his pyjamas from where they’re thrown on his pillow, and scuttles in the bathroom to change and to brush his teeth.

When he comes out, James is curled up on his right side nearly on the edge of the bed, under the duvet. His right wing is half-stretched along the bed and his left one flops over him, hiding most of his torso and face. Freckles is wedged against his shins, and she peeks out at Steve from under the wing that half-covers her and thumps her tail apologetically over her defection to James’ side.

He can’t blame her, he thinks, as he turns off the light.

* * *

Steve wakes up early to take a piss and it wasn’t some weird dream: there really _is_ an angel sprawled all over his bed, long dark hair mussed, wings relaxed. The muscles of his back and the perfect curve of his ass look like they should be cast from marble, not warm flesh. James is snuffle-snoring, and as Steve watches him (he’s not staring, really he’s not) James’ bare foot stretches out from under the duvet, his toes spreading, before James snuggles more into his pillows and the foot retracts again. It’s so endearing, so intimate, Steve feels like his heart is cracking.

Freckles is on top of the duvet next to James’ legs, lying on her back, pink spotted belly in the air, legs akimbo.

Steve takes out his phone to snap a photo of James and Freckles when he remembers: there’s no point. So he grabs his sketchbook and dashes off a quick drawing of James, then photographs that and sends it to Natasha.

STEVE: So he’s an angel

NATASHA: wtf

NATASHA: WTF JAMES

NATASHA: adding Sam

SAM: WTF!!!! For real?

NATASHA: did you bang the angel steve, if so I require details

SAM: Against my better judgement I require details also

STEVE: NAT NO I DID NOT BANG HIM

NATASHA: (yet)

STEVE: [middle finger emoji]

SAM: You know when you suspect a thing but refuse to believe it

SAM: But everything makes sense now, while also making absolutely no rational sense at all

SAM: …I can’t believe my intern is an actual angel

SAM: this is my life now apparently

SAM: !!! I can practice 3000-year-old languages with someone who ACTUALLY SPOKE THEM 3000 years ago

SAM: Haha, holy shit, #winning

STEVE: Uh he also showed up here with that feather, which is his btw, and one of the Aramaic angel scrolls and said I had to hide them

STEVE: So I’m currently in possession of stolen goods from the Stark Museum, help

STEVE: He says if anyone gets the feather and his true name he can be turned back into a murderbot with the scrolls

NATASHA: Like those two with Cardinal Fury

STEVE: Yeah

STEVE: But he says he’d win in a fight with them

NATASHA: Ugh, why are boys

NATASHA: You have to give the scroll back though

NATASHA: I’ll come over later and take them off you

NATASHA: The feather I’ll hide, because you’ll just hide it somewhere stupid

STEVE: I will not!

NATASHA: Where will you hide it Steve

NATASHA: Will it be under your mattress?

STEVE: Dammit

SAM: I promise you I will mis-file that scroll so hard nobody will ever find it again

STEVE: OK thank you both

SAM: Be good Steve. And bang the angel.

SAM: For science.

NATASHA: And Livejournal.

Steve shakes his head as he pockets his phone. He then busies himself making coffee and a cheese-and-apple omelette while he waits for James to wake up.

And almost drops the skillet and omelette on the ground when he turns to find James right behind him. James’ wings are gone again, but he’s still in nothing but the clingy white boxer-briefs and James mostly naked is… entirely more porn than Steve is capable of handling before coffee.

“Sorry. Did I scare you?” James says, stepping back and doing that thing with his shoulders where he tries to look smaller.

“No,” Steve says, willing his heart rate to slow down. “It’s fine. You just… move very quietly, for someone your size.” The kettle whistles then, and Steve dumps the hot water into the French press. “Would you mind taking Freckles on a walk around the block so she can pee? Then when you get back, the food will be ready.”

“Okay,” James says.

So Steve dishes out some kibble for Freckles, attaches her leash on after she inhales it in two point naught seconds, and gives the leash to James along with his spare pair of keys.

James is about to head out the door with Freckles when Steve yells, “Clothes!”

James waves his fingers in acknowledgement, and a grey-blue v-neck t-shirt, artfully ripped blue jeans, and battered brown boots appear on him.

Steve sighs and turns down the heat on the omelette.

* * *

Breakfast is a silent affair, mostly concerned with James eating as much omelette as he can, and Steve drinking as much coffee as possible. So Steve is somewhat unprepared when, halfway through his eggs, James puts his fork down and says, “I want to do something for you.”

“Hm?” Steve says, around a mouthful of coffee.

“You’ve fed me. A bunch of times. Got me a job. Let me stay in your home. Let me…” James runs a hand through his hair and looks off to the side. When he speaks again, it’s more quietly. “…Let me be _myself_. You have no idea what a _gift_ that was, not to have to hide what I am for a night.” He pins Steve again with those strange, dark-ringed blue eyes. “What can I give you in return? I try to do things for you and… they’re never right. You’ve made it clear you don’t want a guardian angel.”

Steve’s brain freezes. James hurts to look at, leaning forwards with his elbows on the table, which only emphasizes all the ridges in his shoulder muscles under his t-shirt, his hair still messy from sleep, his long eyelashes framing eyes the same azure blue as his shirt.

“I want to be useful,” James mutters, bowing his head, shame colouring his cheeks.

“Pose for me,” Steve blurts out.

“Hm?” James says.

“Let me draw you.” Steve gets up and grabs one of his old sketchbooks, thrusting it across the table at James. “I don’t really work at the museum store, well, I do, but that's just a day job. What I really do is art.”

“You want to draw me?” James says, disbelieving.

“Yeah, well some asshole said I can’t draw wings, so I wanna fix that,” Steve says.

James snorts and does that little half-smile again as he starts paging through the sketchbook. It’s one of Steve’s old practice sketchbooks for life drawing, and James studies it intently, the different body types and poses of the nude models, the pages devoted to working on hands and feet and faces.

“My friend Bernie is a sculptor and has this cool studio, but she doesn’t work on Saturdays and she lets me use her place then as long as I don’t use any electricity, so we could go over for a few hours after breakfast?” Steve asks. “I’m…” Steve feels his cheeks colouring. There’s no good way to say this, so he takes a deep breath and barrels on. “ _I’ve been commissioned to do a book on how to draw fallen angels_.”

James’ face on hearing this is, predictably, somewhat amazing: a mixture of confusion and disgust, as if he were given a bouquet that smells like rotten eggs. “I’m not fallen, though,” he says.

Steve cringes. “People find angels… attractive,” he explains. “And if they’re portrayed as fallen, then there’s a perception that… that they’re sexually… available.”

James tilts head, his expression of confusion deepening. “We’re _weapons_ ,” he says.

Steve glances down at the crappy laminate-wood flooring. It refuses to open up and swallow him whole, despite his most fervent prayers: “James, you can’t be _unaware_ of what you… of the fact that…” He waves his hand, encompassing James’ face and body, hoping against hope that James will _get it_ without him having to dig himself into this hole any deeper.

“What?” James says. Steve would think James is trolling him, but for the fact that James has such an expressive face. Nothing on that face signifies anything other than incomprehension.

“That you’re, uh,” Steve gulps, “…incredibly beautiful.”

James ducks his head, shaking it in a mixture of amusement and refusal. “Nobody has ever commented on my appearance before. We fight in armor…” he explains. “Masked.”

Now it’s Steve’s turn for confusion. “You don’t _notice_ how people look at you?”

James blushes. “I just… assumed it was because I was doing something wrong. That they can tell I’m bad at being a human. That I’m just faking.”

Steve laughs. “Oh my god, no, James. They’re staring at you because you’re the most gorgeous man they’ve ever seen.”

“Really?” James says, with such an innocent delight on his face that, God, Steve just wants to lean across the table, grab his hair, and kiss him.

Instead he forces himself to take another sip of his now-lukewarm coffee. The caffeine finally hits his brain and he has a realization that takes his breath away. “Wait… _you don’t appear in reflections_. That means you’ve never actually seen yourself, have you? You don’t actually know what you look like?”

James makes a helpless little motion with his shoulders. “Why would I need to?”

“Okay,” Steve says, slugging back the rest of the coffee and thumping his mug down on the table. “I _have_ to draw you now, just so you understand.” He stands up and heads towards his clothes rail. “We should get going. Light’s best in the morning.”

He throws on his usual painting outfit of baggy denim smock and short green corduroy shorts, it’s usually hot in Bernie’s studio and he’s never quite got the hang of how to get the high windows open. The smock slips off his shoulder sometimes, but it’s soft and comfortable the way old things often are. He grabs his drawing things and also the scroll case, suddenly fearful of leaving it at home, tells Freckles to be a good girl and they’ll be back in about four hours, then nods to James.

James is quiet the whole ten-block walk to the studio, hands in pockets, looking at the ground. Steve can’t get a read on what he’s feeling, and he hopes he hasn’t overstepped some boundary. Steve himself hasn’t had the best relationship with his reflection over the years: for a long time all it told him was that he was too thin, too small. That he still looked twelve when he should have looked 20. Five years and a fair amount of therapy later, he’s embraced that fact that he looks young, and that he always makes out in the sales because the smallest sizes are the ones that hit clearance. But he can’t even imagine what it would be like to never have any reference for his appearance — no reflection at all, whether in a flat looking-glass, or the curved one of a friend or lover’s eyes.

James lights up, though, when Steve shoulders aside the heavy metal door of Bernie’s studio. It’s on the ground floor of an old warehouse that belongs to an uncle of hers or something (but Bernie calls half of Orthodox Williamsburg “uncle”, so it’s hard to know which ones are _actual_ relatives and which ones are family friends). It’s an indulgently huge space for New York, at least double-height and with huge, multi-panel old windows that start about six feet up and go nearly to the ceiling. Bernie works in wood on a massive scale, much like Louise Nevelson, and her studio is usually full of her pieces like some strange, alien forest. But Steve knows she has a big show out in California, so most everything is cleared out except for a few massive pillars of wood pushed against the far wall.

Steve watches James as he explores the space, the angel’s face full of wonder. He can’t imagine James as a blank weapon; his face is so full of emotion, always, that to take that away is so cruel that Steve can barely fathom it as a concept.

Before Steve can say anything, James reaches past him and slides the metal door shut, easily, with one hand.

Then he’s standing in the middle of the space, gazing upwards at the 40’ ceilings. His face shines with hope when he looks at Steve again. “Can I?” James says.

“Can you what?” Steve asks.

But then it becomes clear. James slides off that tight blue t-shirt and stands there, bare-chested, wings out, looking up. James' wings in the morning light are dazzling, the cobalt blue and the rose framing a lighter blue that matches his eyes.

“Yeah,” Steve says, his throat going dry. “Go for it.”

James nods his thanks and then grabs the broom handle Bernie uses to open the windows. He twirls it in his hand, checking the balance.

Then the muscles of James’ thighs flex slightly, and he’s up in the air. There’s not really room for an angel and his near as dammit 20’ wingspan even in Bernie’s studio, but James makes it work, arching his body backwards in the air, twisting and turning in tight acrobatics.

At first Steve thinks it’s random, just James cutting loose a little. But as he watches he realises James is doing a set of martial exercises in midair. James is wielding the broom handle like a sword or a spear and moving through a series of tight offensive and defensive maneuvers. Steve tries to memorize them, the arch and flex of James’ body in midair, so he can draw them later. It’s magnificent to watch. The sharp crack of James’ wings when he turns, like a flag in the breeze, and air he displaces as he flies just add to the sense of power he exudes.

Then James buzzes him, diving down from up near the ceiling and, twisting at the last moment, flicks Steve on the ear.

“You little shit!” Steve yells, rubbing his sore ear. The only response he gets is a bark of laughter from somewhere up in the heights.

James folds his wings and dives again, and Steve is sure he’s going to smash himself into the floor. But then James flares out his wings — the sudden spread of them still awe-inspiring in their sheer size — and lands, in a perfect, and silent, three-point crouch.

James stands up and shakes himself. “Thanks, I feel better now,” he says, grinning. “Looser.” And Steve notices that James is more relaxed than he thinks he’s ever seen. James has lost that frightened, beaten-down look. Watching James unfurl, and become _himself_ , feels like a priceless gift that Steve isn’t sure he deserves. He hoards every moment of it, though, every new smile, every laugh, every sign of James adjusting to a world in which he can make his own decisions.

“What?” James smiles.

“It’s just… you look happy.”

“I am,” he says, blushing. “This is the best day I’ve ever had.” He rakes his long hair back with one hand, his eyes bright and excited. “When do you start with the drawing? What do you want me to do?”

“Uh….” Steve says. “I’ll sit under the windows and you… just go stand about ten feet away from me. I normally ask the models to pose for 20 minutes, then there’s a break?”

Steve hears James give his assent, then he heads over to set up a chair for himself and another one to brace his board on, setting up the timer on his phone and it’s not until he looks up, pencil and drawing pad at the ready, that he sees—

— James is naked. Winged and naked.

“Oh,” Steve gulps. Yeah. Angels have dicks that are… very proportional… to their general over-exaggeratedness.

James must interpret the expression on Steve’s face as disapproval, because he shifts nervously. “Did I do wrong? The pictures in your sketchbook, nobody had any clothes on, so I…”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Steve says. He tugs his shirt down more over his shorts, and it slips off his shoulder again. “Okay,” he says, his voice going a little high and reedy, “I’m going to start. You just stand there and try not to move.”

“Okay,” James says, his wings adjusting minutely, and then he stills to an… inhuman degree.

Steve is about to tell him he doesn’t need to be that still, when he decides, actually, fuck it. He’s not going to criticize James for doing the best he can. It doesn’t matter, he can draw James just fine like this. He assesses James’ pose and the light, and decides that he’ll just sketch James’ face first, so the angel can see himself.

Steve lays in the shape and structure of James’ face quickly on the paper, sketching out the hair and adding a neck and shoulders and the collarbone, to frame it. Then he goes back over it, tidying up his lines, finding the ones to emphasise. The strong jaw, the pronounced cheekbones. The brows, with their perfect arch. Then another pass, adding dimensionality and weight, and beginning to shade in. He adds the sun’s highlights in James’ messy, wavy hair, the hint of wings behind him, the shadows under his cheekbones and jaw, and around his eyes. Steve spends a long time on the eyes, trying to capture the sparkle in them he’d seen when James had finished flying, and on the lips, wanting to show the potential for a smile. He is just getting into shaping up the shoulders and top of the chest when his phone timer beeps.

“That’s it. Break time. You can move now,” Steve says.

“But I can hold for longer, if you need to? I don’t need a break,” James says.

Steve smiles. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

And, yeah, Steve sort of forgot James was naked, and he’s sitting down. The play of muscles in James’ abs and groin, and the subtle motion of his soft cock as he walks, would be enough to break a saint. Steve stands up, embarrassed, trying to keep his eyes above James’ waist as the angel walks over. The painting smock slips off Steve’s shoulder again, but he’s too busy clutching his drawing pad to his chest and trying to keep his spirit from leaving his body to be worried about his shirt.

“What?” James says, his smile soft and fond.

“This is you,” Steve says, turning the drawing pad around. “This is what you look like.”

  
_[Art by Sarah Brumbles](https://brumblecakes.tumblr.com) _

James stares at the drawing for a long minute. Then he reaches out and touches it with his hand, and then touches his own face. “That’s really me?” he says, his voice full of wonder.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I mean, it’s just a quick twenty-minute sketch, I’ll do a proper portrait at some point, but now do you believe me that—“

Steve never finishes his sentence, because James leans forwards, and his lips are on Steve’s and, oh.

 _Oh_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi this chapter is mostly fluff but after this week I think we all need it
> 
> ANCIENT SMUT, CLASSICAL EDITION! 
> 
>   
> _Roman fresco from the walls of Pompeii’s (allegedly) most popular brothel_
> 
> So if you took high school Latin and you had to do a reading and translation in front of the class there was always THAT ONE GUY who did [Catullus 2](http://intranslation.brooklynrail.org/latin/eleven-poems-of-catullus) and loudly explained to you that “sparrow” meant “clitoris” but all the real ballers know that if you want to shock the class you do [Catullus 16](https://io9.gizmodo.com/a-latin-poem-so-filthy-it-wasnt-translated-until-the-2-1589504370). Your teacher will just roll their eyes because EVERY DAMN YEAR.
> 
> Also, repping the femslash: Sappho, the original Scissor Sister. She was Greek, from Lesbos, and so awesome that she invented an actual type of metered verse, the Sapphic stanza, [even though she only has one surviving complete poem.](http://www.stoa.org/diotima/anthology/vandiver.shtml)
> 
> Anyway, people were always gay. People were always trans. For many periods of history it totally wasn’t a big deal. (Trans friends, esp trans men, I have AWESOME Romanian fairy tales for you with canon trans male characters! NEXT CHAPTER.)
> 
> Oh also I’m kinda hard to find outside AO3 but if anybody sees / does fanart of this or any of my works please link to it in comments so I can post it in the fic’s notes!


	6. Chapter 6

Steve’s drawing pad clatters to the ground. He freezes, just for a moment, and then lets out an embarrassingly loud moan when the tip of James’ tongue touches his lips. His hands fly up to James’ waist as his head tips back and James kisses him, deep and sweet.

Then Steve’s brain comes back online and he pushes away, his palms against the firm muscle of James’ abdomen. It’s like pushing a brick wall.

James makes a little questioning noise of confusion, as he looks into Steve’s eyes.

“James, do you know what you’re doing?” Steve says, arousal and terror mixing in his stomach.

“Yes, of course I do,” James smiles. “I used to do this… before we were weapons. This, and more, with others of my kind.”

“You… there was something before then? You remember?”

James nods. His hand come up to stroke Steve’s neck, and down his shoulder, where his shirt has slipped off. “Not very much... it’s hazy. A very long time ago. Flying helps me remember.” James bites his lip, and smiles, and Steve thinks, _this is it, this is how I die, being flirted at by an angel_. “This is only the third time I’ve flown,” James explains, “and the first for fun, since I woke up."

Steve inhales sharply as he realises. “You flew to the alley… when I got in a fight with those douchebros…”

“Mhmm,” James nods. “Wasn’t thinking about much then, just knew you were in danger. I hadn’t even thought about my wings in so long, but the instinct was there. I called them and threw myself off the roof. I was halfway to you before I realised what I had done. Then when I took my things from the museum, that was the second time…”

James smiles then, a slow, brilliant smile. It’s like being bathed in sunlight. “I’m free. I’m really free. I can fly whenever I want.” Then one side of his mouth hitches up further, turning the smile into something far more naughty.

And that’s all the warning Steve has before James’ strong arms are pulling him in and he hears the washing-line crack of great wings spreading. He squawks in surprise and fear as his feet leave the ground. As he throws his legs around James’ thick thighs, he feels more than he hears James’ gentle, wordless reassurances as they vibrate through James’ bare chest, against which his head is tucked. He’s clinging on to James for dear life, every muscle tense against the rightful pull of gravity.

James, by comparison, is all loose, confident power. One arm is around the small of Steve’s back, the other up around his shoulders. And then he twists into a barrel roll, the arm around Steve’s shoulders loosening, and Steve cries out, digging his short nails into James’ back.

Steve feels a small, questioning rumble in James’ chest, then they’re the right way up again, and floating downwards.

As soon as James’ bare feet touch the ground, Steve is sliding off him, ending up crosslegged on the floor. His heart is beating too fast and his breath is too short and there’s not enough air—

—he gestures frantically towards his drawing tote, as the first cough wracks through his narrow chest, praying James will—

—James moves so fast Steve’s vision can barely register it, and as Steve clutches his own sides and tries to stay calm and breathe slow despite the rising tide of panic, James dumps the entire contents of the canvas tote on the ground in front of his knees. The ugly grey-blue rescue inhaler tumbles out at the same time as his zip bag of Microns and a brand-new eraser. He seizes the inhaler and jams it to his mouth, shutting his eyes as he depresses the top. The fine spray goes down his throat, leaving behind its awful, metallic tang on the roof of his mouth. It doesn’t do a damn thing for the pounding of his heart but the iron bars around his lungs slowly ease, and he can draw breath again without each attempt ending in a cough.

Steve wipes his wet eyes with the back of the hand still holding the inhaler, and sighs. Nothing like an asthma attack to brighten the day. He looks up.

James is kneeling in front of him, leaning forwards, almost on his elbows. His eyes are wide with terror and confusion, and his wings hang limply down, spread over the dirty cement of the studio floor. James clearly doesn’t know what to do with his hands, whether to reach out or keep his distance, and as he sees Steve looking at him he drops his eyes and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Steve says, easing down onto his back. “I always wanted to fly. Just… more warning next time?”

“But it made you… not breathe,” James says.

Steve closes his eyes and flaps a hand at James. He doesn’t really want to get into explaining all the ways his body sucks, especially not to James, who is pretty much the epitome of perfection. “Parts of me don’t work right, okay? I’m pretty good at managing it.”

There’s a long, slow, rumbling exhale from James, as if he’s growling at the hand of fate itself that dealt these cards to Steve.

“There is literally nobody you can punch to make this better,” Steve sighs.

Another grumble, shorter this time, ending almost in a whine.

“Also it’s not your fault, stop blaming yourself. This happens on a regular basis, why do you think I carry an inhaler.” Steve turns his head towards James and opens one eye.

James looks like the personification of sadness, shoulders and wings drooping, huddled on the floor. Steve mentally notes that pose to use in his book, because he’s terrible. And then, because if you’re going to be terrible you might as well go whole hog, he says, “If you want to make it up to me, you could kiss me again.”

The way James’ eyes brighten shouldn’t be fucking _legal_ , Steve thinks. And then James plants his hands on the floor either side of Steve’s hips and stretches his whole body forwards over Steve, muscles rippling, wings swept up and furled, and Steve finds it very hard to continue thinking at all. At least not with his brain.

Their second kiss is even better than the first, even if James’ nose wrinkles adorably when he first experiences the albuterol aftertaste in Steve’s mouth. Steve leans into it, hungrily, pushing for more, but James pulls back, keeping the kiss gentle. It’s too soft, Steve thinks. James is treating him too carefully, and Steve wants to grab him, push him until he stops treating Steve like he’s made out of tissue. But even Steve realises that today is not the day for that. Not while James is still regaining his sense of personhood. Besides, Steve never really believed in the expression “kissed breathless” but if anyone could do it to him, James would, and two asthma attacks in one day is just overdoing it.

So instead, Steve indulges himself by raking his fingers through James’ long hair (just as silky as it looks) then, as the locks turn from wavy to curly down near the ends, he grabs and tugs. James moans softly as his body arches and his head goes back, revealing the strong column of his neck. Steve can feel the heavy velvet weight of James’ soft cock on his thigh, just below where his shorts stop, and he suppresses a whole-body shiver of desire. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes.

James smiles, molasses-slow, and rises up onto his knees, his muscular thighs bracketing Steve’s slim legs, his wings extending up in a lazy stretch.

It’s a hell of a sight, from where Steve is lying.

Steve knows someday James will go, wherever he belongs, because it sure isn’t Bushwick, or even interning in the basement of New York’s 27th most popular museum, and Steve will be left behind. And even if he and James never have anything else but that kiss, he’ll be ruined for every other man on Earth.

“Are we doing more drawing,” James asks, a hand reaching down to stroke Steve’s bare leg, “or just this?”

“Drawing,” Steve says, “I think we should do more drawing.” Because yes, he has deadlines, and a perfect model, and whatever this is, or might grow to be, Steve wants to take it slow, and make sure that James knows what he is doing.

So he spends the rest of the morning arranging James into poses — not that James needs much arranging. The angel has a natural grace and falls into perfect contrapposto positions without any prompting. Steve sketches out a half-dozen full-body images, trying to ignore the way there’s an increasing physical confidence in the way James is presenting himself to Steve, a hint of sexual challenge in his eyes. Steve finds himself spacing out, just staring at James, so often that he sets a recurring chime on his phone to ring every minute to bring him back to reality. He’s supposed to be _drawing_ , not ogling.

It’s almost a relief for Steve when he moves on to detail studies of areas that drawing students always find difficult: hip positions. The anatomy and musculature of James’ back, and his wings. Hands and feet. (And Steve had never considered forearms as beautiful before, but James’ are, all corded muscle shifting below golden skin.) Finally, different head positions: low angle, high angle, and ¾ views.

They wrap up around 1pm, just as the light is shifting away from the studio’s large windows. Steve calls ahead to his favourite local pizzeria as James, wings banished to wherever they go when he’s not using them, slips back into his street clothes. By the time they get there, the three pizzas Steve ordered are ready. As he expects, James eats 2.5 of them.

When they get home, Freckles is so happy to see them she just about wiggles herself inside out. After her walk, the little white pup jumps onto the sofa, turns around three times, and settles down with a world-weary snort.

James, however, is still lurking near the door, as if he fears he has overstayed his welcome. But there’s also a faint glimmer of hope in his face, as if he’s wanting something he’s not sure how to ask for.

“Stay,” Steve breathes. “Stay until Monday.” He digs out his phone and flips the audio output to his Bluetooth speakers, throwing on a Vashti Bunyan track. As her voice softly fills the room, Steve says, “I still have to show you music, and Thai food, and anime, and I could use your help with Freckles, and I thought maybe once it gets dark we could go onto the roof and you could fly again, just for fun, and… uh… and…” he stutters.

“And yes,” James says, striding towards him, a smile lighting up his face. Before Steve can react, he’s being hugged against that chest, and he can feel James brushing a kiss into his hair. “This is the best day,” James says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, fidgeting his way out of James’ grasp and then thrusting his phone at the angel. “You play with music. I need to scan these sketches and make them into rough layouts.”

James squints at Steve’s iPhone in a way that’s both adorable and sexy, and Steve sighs and runs him through how to use Spotify. Steve spends the rest of the afternoon and early evening shifting between his scanner and his laptop, while James sits on the sofa with Freckles and hopscotches through Steve’s playlists.

Then, at just about the point where Steve can’t actually look objectively at his layouts any more, his phone beeps.

NATASHA: Good to come pick up the stuff now?

STEVE: Yes! Perfect timing

NATASHA: I’ll be over in twenty.

Natasha appears exactly on time, and doesn’t even try to hide her smile as she looks at James curled up on Steve’s sofa, Freckles tucked into the curve of his legs. Her smile grows even broader as she wanders over to flip through Steve’s sketches from the morning.

“The Stark Museum is a backwater, Natasha. Nothing ever happens there. Why would you ever want to work there, Natasha?” She mutters to herself, still grinning.

“Besides,” Steve sniffs, “I bet you don’t get nearly as many lessons on how to talk dirty in Sumerian at _the_ _Met_.” He lets his voice climb high and nasal on the final words, sticking his nose up in parody of the Stark’s considerably more grandiose and popular neighbor a few blocks further south. He pushes the scroll case and the feather at Natasha.

Natasha takes the items, bows to him in thanks, then turns to James. “Nobody will ever find these, I swear to you on my parents’ graves,” she says.

James blushes and ducks his head. “Thank you,” he says, softly.

Steve gets a couple more hours in on the layouts, then he orders Thai food from the place down the block. It’s definitely a hit, though watching James scrunch his nose the first time he discovers chili sauce is not something Steve will ever forget.

Then, as promised, Steve drags James up to the roof. Freckles comes too, clumsily bounding up the steps, excited to explore. She isn’t the only one who’s excited. The flying seems incredibly therapeutic for James: every time he takes wing, even for a little while, he comes back stronger, more self-assured, more centered. And it’s a perfect night for it: dark, moonless and cloudy, with a slight breeze. As James looks across the empty roof and up into the night sky, his whole body goes taut with excitement. He pulls off his shirt, thrusts it into Steve’s hands, kisses Steve hard on the lips and then leaps into the air, his wings appearing.

James flies straight up, vanishing into the clouds.

“Don’t get hit by an airplane,” Steve shouts after him, a fond grin splitting his face. “You dope,” he adds, more softly. Freckles leans against him, her tail beating against his calf.

It’s chillier than Steve expects, up there on the roof, so he slips James’ shirt on over his own, and settles down to wait. Freckles shoves her way into his lap, and he’s glad for the warmth she provides. There’s no sign of the angel, much as Steve squints up into the clouds to try to see… and that’s good, he thinks. James is being smart, staying up high where he can’t be spotted by a curious New Yorker. Even though James’ magic (or whatever) keeps him from actually being recorded if someone tries to video him, Steve doesn’t think it’s a good idea for the wider world to find out about James yet. He’s too… innocent, in so many ways.

It’s a long, cold forty-five minutes until Steve thinks he hears the crack of great wings spreading above him. He scrambles to his feet, eyes searching the sky.

James drops straight down from the heavens like a dagger, landing right in front of Steve. He’s grinning, chest heaving, hair tousled, a wild and free creature of the air. “I will not let anybody take this from me again,” James growls, his voice low.

“So it was good?” Steve says. He can’t take his eyes off James, and the chill of the evening has been banished by the heat unspooling in his body.

“Yes. _Yes_ ,” James says, raking his fingers through his hair. “Yes,” he says one last time, as his wings vanish.

Steve nods, then his body betrays him: at the same time a shiver runs through him from the chill, he yawns as the exhaustions of the past few days catch up with him all at once.

James’ eyes widen, and before Steve is fully conscious of what’s going on, James is herding him and the dog back down to the apartment. Then, once they’re inside, James is easing out of his jeans and wow, Steve is still not used to seeing James naked. James climbs into Steve’s bed, squishes himself to the side near the wall, and points at Steve, then points at the other side of the bed.

Steve’s brow furrows. “But last night you said…” he begins.

James frowns, and points again at the empty space in the bed.

Steve likes to consider himself a man of considerable willpower, but even he has his breaking points. He struggles out of his clothes and climbs in next to James.

James immediately drapes a heavily muscled arm over him and drags him closer, so Steve is the little spoon, his ass and back pressed against the great solid curve of James’ body. Steve wouldn’t mind this, but then James places his chin in Steve’s hair and lets out a low grumble, and Steve _realises_.

“You’re protecting me again, aren’t you?” Steve says. “Oh my god, you’re guarding me _against asthma_.” Steve rolls away from James then, the laughter hiccuping up his throat. “Oh, pal, we are… going to have to introduce you to science, and medicine, very soon.”

James narrows his eyes and laughter explodes out of Steve again. “No, science _good_ , medicine _good_ , down James,” Steve giggles. He tries to get his breathing under control, but then the irony occurs to him of triggering an asthma attack by laughing too hard at the angel trying to guard you from an asthma attack, he thinks, and that sets him to cackling anew. Finally, Steve settles, and looks over at the impossible man glaring at him from the other pillow. “You’ve never lost a fight, have you?” Steve asks, softly.

“I am the best,” James answers.

It’s said without boasting, the way another person might say _it’s cloudy out_ , or _the tea’s ready_. And Steve briefly wonders what it must be like, to go through life with that absolute certainty, with such supreme confidence that any physical obstacle can be overcome if needed. And then he remembers where it got James: wings cut off, imprisoned in a stone box, his bright soul just a puppet for those keen to make use of the staggering power that comes with it.

He decides that if it makes James happy to protect him, he’ll give James that.

Steve drags James’ arm over him and settles back against James’ chest again. He kisses the broad knuckles of James’ hand and says, “Okay, you can guard me.”

James sighs and settles against Steve, contentment radiating from him as he rubs the back of Steve’s neck with his chin. And as Steve drifts off, he realises he _does_ feel safe. That it’s all right for him to accept help.

* * *

Steve wakes to the distant beeping of his phone alarm. The duvet is too warm and he tries to shift it, but the edge of it just springs back and thumps him in the cheekbone.

Bedclothes shouldn’t hit back, Steve thinks, as he opens an eye.

There’s a wing in his face.

There’s also an erection pushing up against his ass.

Steve’s body goes from zero to 60 in about four seconds, and from being stone-cold asleep he is now very, very awake and flush with the beginnings of arousal. He’s going to grind back against James if he doesn’t get up immediately and throw some combination of hot coffee and a cold shower into himself.

But there’s a huge wing pinning him to the bed.

Steve shifts, trying to ease himself out from under James’ wing, but as soon as he touches it, James’ eyes snap open and he sits up, swinging his legs to the edge of the bed, his wings vanishing.

“Uh,” Steve says.

James is frowning down at his erection, his hair sleep-mussed, his eyes bleary.

Which makes Steve look at it too. And that’s not helping matters at all. Because James might have the most gorgeous dick Steve’s ever seen, and all he wants to do is swing a leg over and ride it like it’s the Kentucky Derby. Steve groans inwardly. James, hard and naked, is _not_ a fair thing for a man to have to cope with when still half-asleep.

“My body is doing things again,” James mutters, scratching the back of his head.

“Oh,” Steve says. “Well, uh… this is a few steps after kissing. Uh. Where it can lead? And it’s a fairly regular thing to happen in the morning when you wake up.”

“Okay,” James says, still pouting slightly.

Steve takes a deep breath. He can handle this. Holy shit, he’d _really_ like to handle it, but he still isn’t 100% sure James actually knows what sex is. _Baby steps, Rogers, baby steps_ , he tells himself. Ugh. It's the size of a baby's _arm_. “Right. Uh, take your hand and put it around your dick and stroke yourself,” he says, idly wondering if he can put ‘Taught an angel how to masturbate’ under Additional Skills on his resumé.

James glances at him, then circles his cock with his hand.

Steve makes a motion with his hand, indicating what James should do.

James copies, and his eyes widen briefly in surprise before his head lolls back and a shiver runs through his body. His hand speeds up over himself, and the head of his cock begins to glisten.

Steve is fine. Steve can handle this.

James lets out the most ragged, fucked-out moan as he bites his lip and fists the sheets.

Steve absolutely _cannot_ handle this.

Before he can overthink it, he puts his hand on James’ wrist, stilling him, then slides off the bed and onto his knees between James’ thighs. “Let me do something for you,” Steve rasps out.

“But you’ve already done so much for me,” James says, confusion flickering across his flushed face.

“Shut up, this is as much for me as it is for you,” Steve says, moving James hand out of the way and giving James precisely zero notice as he wraps his lips around that gorgeous cock and sinks down. James gasps, and his hips jerk forwards, ramming his cock into the back of Steve’s throat and that shouldn’t be the sort of thing that turns him on but _holy shit_ , it really does, and Steve wraps one hand around himself and braces the other in the crease of James’ hips and goes to town.

James is so responsive. Everything Steve does pulls filthy little noises out of him, causes him to shake. It’s the best kind of aphrodisiac, and Steve knows he’s gong to come really fast — James is too, by the look of it, and Steve hollows out his cheeks and swipes his tongue up James’ shaft, redoubling his efforts. He pulls off momentarily to mouth down James’ shaft and take his balls in his mouth, and then he licks his way up to the top of James’ head again and sinks down all the way to the root, one last time. He’s gagging, and he’s got tears in his eyes and his mouth is a dripping mess, saliva all down his chin, but he doesn’t care, he just wants to completely take James apart and show him this, this joy, and then James is grabbing his shoulder and Steve can feel James’ orgasm pulsing down his shaft and into the back of his throat and he moans as best he can around the cock in his mouth.

Then James is dragging him upwards, turning him so his back is against James’ chest, and James puts his big hand around Steve’s cock and it only takes about three or four more strokes and then Steve is coming too, with a shout, his body bowing upwards, ass grinding into James, and James is mouthing at his neck, hot messy biting kisses, and _hello, good morning world_.

They both slump back into bed afterwards, sticky and gross but who cares, Steve curled up on top of James, James’ hands cupping Steve’s ass. “Mmm,” James rumbles. “That’s even better than fighting.” His fingers skate into the cleft of Steve’s ass and Steve shudders against him, still in the afterglow of his orgasm.

It’s a grey, indifferent day, and they rise slowly, James wringing another shudderingly blissful orgasm out of both of them when Steve wakes from a doze, hard again, and sleepily starts grinding against James. He takes them both in hand and starts lazily stroking them, and then Steve’s brain loses all ability to filter, and he moans, “I want you to fuck me,” and James doesn’t, not yet, but there’s a dangerous promise in those clear eyes as his hand speeds up and his lips find Steve’s.

They’ve walked Freckles and Steve has made coffee and is slowly contemplating bacon and eggs while also contemplating that he’s going to get fucked by _that_ , and soon, and oh wow, maybe now, now would work fine, when the text message comes.

NATASHA: Vatican coming to see Stark and Banner in two hours to take scrolls

NATASHA: We think it might be a good idea if you and James are there. Sam’s in

Steve relays the information to James, who gives him a curt nod.

STEVE: He’s in. We’re in. See you soon.

NATASHA: OK. Luke and Danny are on security, they’ll buzz you in

NATASHA: Stark wants the meeting in the third floor turret gallery

NATASHA: the one we’ve been remodeling for like 5 years

It’s a good space, that gallery: a large, round room with a soaring, cathedral ceiling that ends in the biggest of the museum’s corner turrets. And there’s no art in it to damage if things go south. It’s also one of the only spaces in the museum that there’s enough room to fly, and Steve wonders slightly at that.

STEVE: Did you or Sam tell Stark?!

STEVE: About James

NATASHA: Hell no

NATASHA: STEVE.

STEVE: OK fine sorry, paranoid

STEVE: See you soon

Two hours later, they’re showered, shaved (Steve), and dressed, and waiting in the turret gallery. Dr Banner and Sam are there, having carted the two boxes of scrolls up in the service elevator down the hall. Tony Stark arrives next, a little too shiny for a Sunday in a maroon three-piece suit, yellow-lensed glasses, and towing a rolling metallic suitcase in ugly shades of burgundy and gold. Natasha flanks him, serious in black. Steve is pretty sure she’s armed.

“Okay, I’m here, the party can start,” Stark says. He looks around. “Actually, I want coffee. Can we order some food? Bruce?”

Dr Banner rolls his eyes and starts texting the number for the atrium café.. “You know it’s not going to arrive until after we’re done here,” he mutters.

"I'll run down and get it," Sam says.

“Oh, and some of those Rice Krispie things,” Stark says. He’s pacing, restless, fiddling with his big gold watch or his glasses or his suit, as if checking to make sure he’s still there. Watching him puts Steve on edge. He doesn’t realise how much until he feels James’ hand on the small of his back, grounding him. He presses back subtlely into James.

Not subtlely enough that Stark misses it, though. Suddenly the man is pointing at him. “Oho!” Stark says. Then he turns to Dr Banner. “Do we have a policy on our staff dating each other?” Then to Steve. “You two are dating, right? Or did I just make something super awkward?”

Dr Banner sighs again, never looking up from his phone. “No, we don’t have a policy on inter-company dating, you are dating your CFO if you recall, also remember what we discussed about other people’s personal lives?”

Stark throws up his arms. “Blah blah blah, they should remain personal, that’s why they’re called personal, why is nobody any fun at all.”

It’s that moment, of course, that Luke and Danny bring Cardinal Fury and his two silent watchdogs into the room, and all the fun is sucked out of the room as if Fury’s very presence banishes it to outer space.

“We’re here for the scrolls. I see you brought them,” Fury says.

“Hello! How is New York treating you? Go to any good restaurants?” Stark says.

If Fury could kill with a look, Tony Stark would definitely be dead right now. “The scrolls,” he says.

“Right, about that,” Dr Banner says, tucking his phone away. He indicates one of the crates. “We’ve decided to give you half of them. Every other one, so neither your institution or ours can use them for their intended purpose.”

“No,” Fury says.

“You’re correct, I’m not done,” Dr Banner says.

“Nope! This is my bit,” Stark interrupts.

Dr Banner exhales and makes a _go on_ gesture.

“See, it’s come to my attention that you want the scrolls because you say someone will use them for bad purposes if they’re not given to you, right? Right. But you’re standing there, with two enslaved creatures—“

“Angels. Definitely angels,” Steve finds himself saying.

Surprisingly Stark doesn’t yell at him, just makes a _my point exactly_ gesture, and carries on. “I mean, I think it’s a bit rich you saying you’re going to keep us from doing bad things but it’s okay if you do bad things because you’re the Vatican. So. You get half the scrolls if, and only if, you free these two and any others you have enslaved.”

The two Vatican angels do not respond in any way. In their black suits, they look as blank as ever.

Fury does respond. He almost smiles. “Nice speech,” he says. “But there are aspects of this situation you cannot understand as an outsider.”

“You cut their wings off and take their self determination away from them!” Steve shouts, and it’s only James’ hand on his shoulder that keeps him from getting in Fury’s face. “You physically mutilate them and keep them from flying because you know if they did, you couldn’t keep them prisoner any more!”

“They _choose_ to serve,” Fury says. “They chose long ago. As I chose to serve.” Then he turns to Stark. “The Vatican does not make deals. We will take the scrolls now. All of them.” He beckons to his angels. “Take the crates.”

“No,” a voice says.

Steve realises it’s James. He’s moved in front of the crates, blocking them from the advancing angels. He’s relaxed, calm, and completely spoiling for a fight.

Fury sighs. “Move him,” he orders.

The angels pull guns out from under their suits, and point them at James. There’s a hesitation in them though, as if they know their own.

“Hey!” Stark says, but nobody’s looking at him any more.

They’re watching James, who is smiling as his shirt falls apart and his wings stretch out. As beautifully-articulated blue-black armour, edged in gold, spreads over his body, encasing it. As a visor, its edges swept up like wings, covers his face. As a sword appears at his waist, and a spear, its long blade a rose gold so bright it seems to blaze, appears in his hand. There’s a screech of metal, but it’s not coming from James. He is completely silent.

The angels hesitate, and look back at their master.

“Release them,” James says, “Or I will release them into death.”

Somewhere behind them, Stark clears his throat.

Cardinal Fury’s expression is frozen. Then he turns slowly to Steve. “You call this one James?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “It’s what he named himself.”

Fury nods. “We know him by a different name, in the church.” Then he makes a hand motion. The angels sheath their guns and step back.

“I can’t believe you stole my moment,” Stark whines, his voice strangely metallic.

Steve looks over grudgingly, unwilling to tear his eyes from James’ warlike form. “Oh,” he says, feeling nothing but a low, dull shock at the figure encased in red and gold metal on the other side of the room. It's so much klunkier than James' elegant, figure-hugging dark armour. “You’re Iron Man?”

Dr Banner howls with laughter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY DID THE THING, FOLKS
> 
> Also, in historic gayness facts: [Alexander the Great, power bottom](https://grabhim.net/2015/11/13/was-alexander-the-great-gay/), loved every Tom, Dick and (especially) Hephaesteon and everybody in the ancient world knew it.
> 
> And Hatshepsut, the nb / transmale ruler. Was 100% okay with depicting themselves as a man with beard and muscles in official iconography. Would love to know what pronouns they had used, officially, as [this annoying article](https://amysmartgirls.com/hatshepsut-meet-the-female-pharaoh-who-ruled-egypt-as-a-man-953722dcfb73) refers to them by female pronouns while talking the whole time about how they presented male. Grr.
> 
> Oh and here's some Mespotamian bumsex, early 2nd millenium BCE  
>   
> [Read more about Mesopotamian erotica.](https://www.timesofisrael.com/4000-year-old-erotica-depicts-a-strikingly-racy-ancient-sexuality/)


End file.
